Birth of Spring. Everything is sterile. Everything is so so delicately beautiful. Fragile, sensitive. The colors of the leaves are fresh like pure. There’s novelty. There’s raw potential that needs to be supported in order for it to make it through. There are eyes wide open. There’s exciting waiting. There’s light touch. There’s piercing light. There’s waking up, there’s stretching. There are tears of joy, there’s protection.

The summer comes and allows a bit more fullness, a bit more centered being. A bit more confidence and going with the flow. The nature reaches its peak, is in full blossom. Flowers after flowers show their colourful shows and everything is bit more extroverted, bit more visible. The energy comes from withing and is seen, smelled, touched, heard outwardly. There’s relaxation there. The nature is alive.

Autumn is the grand final. It is full of joyful melody accompanied with melancholy. It is full of variation. It is warm, it is cold. It is windy, it is not. It’s giving all that’s left inside to outside. It makes sure nothing’s done half way. The raindrops here and there, and maybe some days everywhere, remind of what’s to come. The dropping temperature comes slowly. Nothing happens just too abruptly. Just slowly piece by piece.

And then the soft landing comes. It makes sure to purify. It makes sure to give a cover, to put the nature to rest. To let it sleep. It never rushes. It takes its time. It never apologizes, never goes according to someone else’s will. The Winter is cold and harsh but it protects. The Winter knows what needs to be done to let the Spring blossom once again.

So does the wind come, so does the temperature drop. So do the first leaves turn to yellow. And so is there once again a new Autumn. Kind of new but kind of the same as always. Some things have grown, some things have died, some things have been born and some things are still unknown.