Seasons

The maple trees at the park are turning crimson. I noticed it last week while walking the dog, and my heart thrilled with excitement. I love seasons. There are only two seasons in Southern California, and none in Hawaii, so I never got to experience this aspect of God’s creation while growing up. The first time I ever understood the magic of spring was in March 2000, when I was living in Vichy, France. 

It felt like I’d stepped into another dimension.

The moment is etched in my memory. I was walking on the high school campus where I lived and worked, and the world felt different. It was like those movies where everything is black and white until a certain point, then suddenly color floods the screen. I hadn’t noticed how gray and nondescript the world had been for the past three months until spring arrived to awaken my senses.

The change was so dramatic that I couldn’t immediately identify what had happened. It felt like I’d stepped into another dimension. The realm of spring. I swiveled my head back and forth as I walked, taking everything in.

The sun was shining brightly, dazzling my winter-dulled eyes. I resisted the urge to squint. The grass was so glossy and vibrant, it nearly sparkled in the light. Colorful flowers had appeared here and there, seemingly overnight. The winter’s long silence was broken by the chirping and trilling of a myriad of birds and the busy buzzing of insects. Even the pavement had come alive—scores of curious black beetles with large red markings scurried to and fro. And there was a new color. It seemed to float in the air, concentrated around the bare branches of the trees, a mist of the most delicate green I’d ever seen.

Intrigued, I walked across the living carpet of grass to investigate the nearest tree. It was covered with tender leaf buds and a few tiny new leaves, barely unfurled, nearly translucent in their freshness. Up close, each was perfect in form, but so small that from a distance they created the illusion of color without substance.

Ever since that magical day, I have looked forward to the coming of spring each year.

As I resumed my walk, marveling at this new discovery, I sensed that something else was different too, but I couldn’t figure out what. Then I noticed my shadow dancing down the path before me. I hadn’t missed it during the endlessly overcast days of winter, but when it returned, I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen it for three months!

Ever since that magical day, I have looked forward to the coming of spring each year. Luckily for me, I only had two springs back in Southern California before I moved to Ukraine in February 2003. Ukraine’s seasons are even more distinct than those of central France, because Ukrainian winters are snowy. I adore snow and always celebrated the first snowfall of the season with excited exclamations as I dashed around the apartment to share the news with every member of the family. 

During the nineteen years that I was privileged to live in Ukraine, I came to recognize and celebrate many signs of the changing seasons. One of my favorite was the chestnut tree. Kyiv has so many chestnut trees that a chestnut leaf is the official symbol of the city. It was even etched on the green plastic tokens we used to have to buy to ride the subway. Now everything has been modernized, and you just tap with your phone to enter the subway. It’s much more convenient, but sometimes I miss the green tokens with the chestnut leaf.

Every year I would track the changing seasons with the chestnut trees. When I first encountered them on a summer visit to Ukraine before I got married, they were covered in large, five-fingered leaf clusters. Their deep green canopy provided welcome shade for people strolling along Kyiv’s boulevards. 

When I returned as a new bride, the chestnut trees were bare, awaiting their transformation. Spring brought delicate, new leaves with their translucent green, and a few weeks later, stalks of buds that erupted into conical mounds of pink-tinged, white blossoms, like miniature, snowy Christmas trees perched on the branches. The flowers faded and fell, and the leaves thickened and darkened. Then, one day I noticed green, spiny balls hidden among the foliage. As autumn’s chill filled the air, they fell to the ground, splitting open to reveal shiny brown chestnuts. Collecting them provided the children with endless fun. Soon after, the chestnut leaves turned yellow and fell as well, and the trees entered their winter sleep again.

My eyes are opened, and I’m taking in the beauty of the changing seasons in our new city.

I miss the chestnut trees. But now I have the maple trees. I first noticed them a year ago. I was stunned. I knew maples turned red in the fall, but I’d never seen them before. Not really. The color was a living flame, and it warmed me on that chilly morning. I must have passed them dozens of times during the previous two autumns that we’d lived in Budapest. How had I never noticed them?

Even though I knew the answer, it was hard to believe grief and trauma had locked me in so completely that I’d been blind to this glory. But now my eyes are opened, and I’m taking in the beauty of the changing seasons in our new city. It’s a victory in the long process of learning to thrive again.

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