Teachings of the Seasons

The crabapple tree is past its glory. The small white blossoms that lit up the tree just a few weeks ago now hang limp and brown. One might think the show is over, but the real work is just commencing. Now is the beginning of the fruition—literally.

Among my many teachers is a woman named White Eagle. She is a Native American teacher based in the high desert of New Mexico. I have only spent a few weeks with her but she, like so many others, gave me gifts that I carry with me.

Writing about the seasons of the crabapple tree, I recall the teachings of the medicine wheel. White Eagle taught us that, in her Native American tradition, the medicine wheel represents the sacred ground of the cosmos and all the beings of life. She led us through several different ceremonies within the medicine wheel she had constructed with a large circle of stones marking a carefully tended open space within. Entering into the medicine wheel, we were taught to acknowledge our sacred and primal kinship with all beings by pausing, offering a pinch of tobacco and saying ‘all my relations.’

‘All my relations’ is a way of naming the radical non-separation that is the truth of our human life. The truth we so often forget. A sense of separation is the norm for most human being. We feel cut off from the world around us, from each other and from ourselves and we suffer. In the distress that comes from our delusion of separation, we act out of greed, anger and ignorance—trying to get what we think we need to heal our pain and dis-ease.

Our human work is to try to remember—try to find our way back to the truth of our original connection. The medicine wheel is one of the tools some Native American traditions use to come home to the circle of the creation—through the veil of our persistent delusion of separation.

Within the medicine wheel, the four directions are honored as phases in the ongoing cycles of life. Each direction represents a season and an aspect of our human experience. These seasons happen within the calendar year, but also happen multiple times during each season and even each day. Each time is seen to be necessary and sacred. Each season is to be named and met with reverence and appreciation.

East is spring—the direction of new life. New life emerges from the cold and dar of winter. Things planted long ago sprout and blossom. Bees hum and birds sing. Life is full of new possibilities. This is the time of beginnings. Beginnings of projects—of new adventures—of new lives.

This is an exciting time and is also a time of careful planning. Sometimes it requires the hard work of cultivating the ground for what is to come. Things are vulnerable in this time; new life often requires our protection and nurturing.

South is summer—the direction of fullness of being. Summer is playing on the beach—is warmth and ease. Hot summer nights and the fullness of passion and desire. The south also represents this time of comfort and being nourished by the easy long days.

This is a joyous and restorative time—one we often forget. Lost in our plans and worries, some of us need to intentionally create the space to relax. We have gotten so attached to our busyness, that this aspect, of just sitting on the porch in the middle of the day for a few moments of doing nothing, often gets forgotten.

West is autumn—the fruition and the falling. Autumn is the time of harvest, when the work of spring and summer comes to completion. The fruits of our labors ripen and we celebrate what has been accomplished through us. It is also the time of letting go of the forms and functions of summer. Leaves fall and we have to let things fall away.

This is the time of naming and appreciating ourselves and others. This season also gets forgotten by many of us. We’re off to pursue our next plans or we feel we should be modest and so not notice the results of our hard work. Naming and celebrating our accomplishments is an important part of being able to move forward with resilience and renewed enthusiasm.

North is winter—the darkness, cold and death. While many of us approach this season of life with trepidation and fear, it is equally important. Each season supports and allows all the other seasons. Winter is falling back—letting ourselves rest in the darkness of not knowing. The bleeding heart plants that bloomed so gloriously in the Temple garden this spring, were, I believe, quite content through the winter when they were buried in the cold, dark ground.

Winter is a time of non-arising. Instead of busying ourselves with plans and activities, we rest in the bosom of the mysterious creation itself. Yes, there is sadness and loss, but this darkness is the rich humus that nourishes what is to come.

These seasons of our life follow the seasons of the world around us and also overlap and occur moment after moment. Each morning is a new spring. Each night is the winter of darkness.

The crabapple is moving from the extravagant joys of spring into the long easeful summer. The fruition of the fall is already present in the nascent fruit that has been set. Now we just wait.

Personal Practice: Be conscious of the seasons of your day. Notice the many beginnings each day has within it. Notice the many feelings and activities and interactions that sprout up, seemingly out of nowhere. Take some time for the ease of summer – even a few moments of just sitting in the sun or shade can be a whole season. Appreciate the things you do – the small accomplishments of the day are moments to notice and be grateful for. Notice too the things that fall apart, the endings, the losses. Remember that sometimes there is nothing that can be done—and that this too is part of life. Appreciate the seasons of this day.