Unitarian Universalist Church of Palo Alto

Reflection: Seasons

Dave Weber
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Palo Alto, CA

At earlier times in my life, and in other places, distinct seasons defined the year for me. Warm humid summers meant vacations and lying outside under the stars, and autumn meant a new year at school. I remember bicycle rides through blazing autumn colors on crisp sunny October afternoons to cider mills to taste the nectar right out of the apple press. I also recall hiking amidst golden aspens fluttering on Rocky Mountain hillsides. And there were sled rides on January nights, and journeys on cross country skis through cathedrals of snow-covered Sierra pines experiencing the ultimate quiet of nature gone to sleep. Without fail, the magic of spring emerged each year, life was renewed, flowers burst forth from the snow, and blossoms gave way to new leaves, as summer again approached.

However, it wasn’t all idyllic. I remember weeks in Minnesota when the thermometer never climbed above zero, when the exhaust from cars created a blinding fog bank and the Mississippi, rushing by too quickly to freeze, steamed like a giant river of hot coffee. I had a Swiss Army coat then, the stuff of legends, that had air holes cut in it so you wouldn’t overheat in 30 below. I remember dirty slush, the endless layers of clothing, those mandatory rubber boots with buckles, and frostbitten fingers. There are few more frightening experiences than driving in a blinding snowstorm with zero visibility, or hitting a patch of ice and spinning out of control on a crowded freeway. In Ohio where I grew up, right now the trees are stark and bare, the sky is interminably gray, the landscape is brown with patches of dirty snow, and an icy wind numbs your cheeks. Brrr! Is it any wonder December has served so often as the metaphor for death? I really don’t miss Eastern winters.

In Northern California, our seasons are subdued. We get a decent autumn. Many of the leaves have now turned colors and are falling from the trees. It isn’t New England, but it’s not bad. The other night I walked through a beautiful mosaic of gingko leaves that carpeted the ground. If you arise with the sun, you will often see frost dot the landscape. But … in three weeks, the tulip magnolias will blossom and fruit trees will soon follow suit. Autumn will seamlessly transition into spring. It will be so subtle that the unmindful among us will miss it. As the blossoms take their turns, spring will stretch into May. Then our summer will be mild and dry with cool evenings and endless sunshine. Is this heaven or what? Still, I do feel richer having experienced the extremes. Spring here lacks the impact of an Eastern May, when everything blooms at once, and you’ve had to suffer waiting for it.

The beauty of Montana may call to me, but living there would mean putting up with winter driving and frostbite. I could move to the tropics and give up seasons altogether. After all, I once ate Christmas dinner in my swimsuit on a Hawaiian beach. But how then would I mark the flow of time and endure the distance from good friends and family left behind. Ideally, I’d spend part of May in Minnesota watching the world be reborn, split July between the Swiss Alps and Canadian Rockies, be high in the Wasatch of Utah in September, walking in fields of wildflowers and watching the Aspens turn, spend October hiking among the sugar maples in Vermont, and enjoy President’s Day weekend skiing at Donner Pass. I’d spend the rest of the time snorkeling in Hawaii. To avoid losing my community of family and friends, I’d have to charter a plane and take everyone along. Are any of you interested in joining me? But you know, even if I had the money, that much traveling is no fun, and I’d generate such a gigantic carbon footprint that I’d find myself drummed out of the Sierra Club. Oh well, if I have to stay put most of the time, the bay area really isn’t such a bad place to be. Even in mild Northern California, we could still, if we so desired, arise before the sun, walk to a Santa Cruz mountain-top, and feel the icy morning wind on our skin, experience snow in February as I have at Russian Ridge, and hundred degree heat in August, and with a bit of effort, we could ski the Sierras and swim in mountain lakes. Here there are seasons without extremes and ample natural beauty in which to enjoy them. There is summer warmth without humidity, and an autumn that skips right over winter into spring. To fully enjoy life here, I just need to maintain an awareness of the world around me, being thankful for the sun, the rain, the stars, and the seasons.

Sermon: For the Earth Forever Turning by Rev. Kurt Kuhwald