Seasons

Driving north on FM 1385 the contrast is startling. A 50 acre tract of unplanted, pitch-black clay sits next to an equal-sized field of brilliant green wheat. It is as if the pubescent wheat actually knows that it will own the glories of nature for the next two months, a period that will see it turn from the jewel-green color into “amber waves of grain” that, on windy days, will in fact look like colorful ocean waves. The black clay sits there as a symbol of winter, bitter and cold, seemingly with no promise whatsoever. Does it even know about the seeds that it is about to receive?

I reflect upon the possibility that my fascination with the seasons and symbols of nature might be due to the intuition that they reflect the seasons of our own very human lives. I see it all the time: one family is flourishing and giving thanksgiving for the bountifulness of its blessings, while another is struggling with illness or death, unemployment or addiction, perhaps just plain ol’ bad luck. It is difficult, either way, to see beyond the season in which one finds one’s self. The human being seems to be constantly seduced by the thought that “now” is forever.

Making the turn west towards Pilot Point I contemplate the facts as I know them: in two or three months, just as the wheat is being harvested and turned under, leaving a mish-mash of black dirt mixed with straw, the field of black clay will begin to give birth to the seeds planted so innocuously a few weeks earlier. The corn or maize will rise like magic out of what once seemed dead, its green stalks soon to be adorned with ears and tassels and the God-given fruit that will sit on our tables or run our machines. Its time will have arrived and its colors will adorn the landscape with as much majesty as the wheat that preceded it.

I am impatient. I want the bounty – all of it – right now. I am, with difficulty, learning to accept the fact that God is in charge of the seasons. All of them.

Don Underwood