In winter one knows what to expect. It will be cold. There will be snow. And when it is a little bit too warm for snow, freezing rain will cover the world in ice.
In the summer, we are bombarded with wave after wave of sweltering heat. Sometimes, it’s a humid heat that covers the world in a heavy, wet blanket. Sometimes, it is a dry heat that sucks the moisture from our skin.
But we never question if it will be hot in the summer months. Rather, we try to determine how much we will suffer in the heat.
Summer is hot. Winter is cold. In both cases, the world provides a consistent message, and we learn how to respond in kind.
The fall, however, plays by a different set of rules. It’s a transitory time; moving us from the red, hot fire of summer to the white, dead cold of winter. Like people, fall does not know who or what it wishes to be, so it attempts to be many things at once.
During the day it favors the summer months. The weather is windy, with a slight chill. But it is still warm enough that a light jacket does the trick. On fall days, I like to sit inside my green house and read a book.
The temperature inside the greenhouse is often ten to fifteen degrees higher than the outside temperature, so I can relax comfortably in jeans and a t-shirt while soaking up the sunshine.
In the night, fall swings hard in the opposite direction. Temperatures plummet and ice crystals form on the grass. Plants die a little each evening as their flower petals freeze and fall to the ground. The tattered remnants of their foliage pile up around them like dead bodies in a war.
The juxtaposition of fall—warmish days and frozen nights—means that I have to dress for two seasons. During the daylight hours, I can do chores in clothing that is sensible, but not over the top. I wear pants, long-sleeves, and a jacket. If the wind gets a little too aggressive, I’ll put my hood up.
At night, I must be more cautious. There are times when fall temperatures drop so low that I am forced to wear my winter gear—boots and coveralls, gloves, and scarves. On those days the grass crunches as I walk across it, and the wind is so violent that I must stop what I am doing to ensure tarps and animal feed do not get blown away.
Such is life on a homestead.
I have lived this lifestyle long enough that the extremes of fall weather no longer surprise me. I have the gear and the clothing required to ensure that I am prepared for almost any situation. Taking care of the land and my animals in comfort is as simple as changing my outfit.
But it is interesting to think that I will always have to change my outfit. I enjoy routine. And when I am faced with a problem, I like to find a solution and stick with it. So in the early days of my journey I experimented with trying to find one “ideal” combination of clothing that would keep me warm, but not too warm that I could wear regardless of the weather.
But that is not how life works.
Where I live, there could be clear skies one minute and driving snow the next. And instead of trying to find a one-size-fits-all solution, I have found that it is more reasonable to fill my closet with multiple options that I can mix and match to get me through any scenario.
A cornerstone teaching of Buddhism is impermanence. Simply put, everything in life is changing. And the change is never-ending. A flower begins to die the moment it starts to bloom. The full moon is always replaced by the rising sun. Nothing stays the same.
Thus, to be human in this life is to ebb and flow with the changing tides of the season. Just because something is hard, that does not mean that we are doing something wrong.
It just means that we are doing something that is hard. And in this season of life, we may need to struggle to reach our goal. Perhaps, we must let go of things that we have grown accustomed to, things that worked perfectly for us in the past.
Letting go is not a sign that these things have no value. It is an acknowledgement that we recognize the impermanent nature of life. And we are using skillful means to flow with that impermanence.
The things we love are ephemeral. That’s what makes them beautiful. And we appreciate that beauty when we are willing to let them go.
Dead roses don’t belong on the coffee table.
Namu Amida Butsu
