The Turning Season

There comes a time each year when summer is still here, yet something has already begun to change.

The flowers continue to bloom, although some now carry drying seed heads where fresh petals had been only weeks before.

The afternoons still hold warmth, yet the earth asks for water more often.

The evening breeze lingers a little longer.

No single moment announces the arrival of a new season.

It reveals itself through small changes that gather day by day.

Returning to the same place allows us to notice them.

A flower opening.

Another releasing its seeds.

The grasses becoming paler beneath the sun.

The light resting differently across the garden by late afternoon.

One change prepares the next.

Without asking anything of us, the season continues to unfold.

Perhaps our own bodies recognise these changes before our minds do.

The breath feels different in the early morning air.

The pace of summer begins to soften.

The appetite changes almost without notice.

We find ourselves lingering a little longer outside before the evening coolness arrives.

The body is listening, even when we are not.

This is one of the reasons I love returning to the same places.

Not because they remain the same.

Because they never do.

The world is always in relationship with itself.

Warmth leaves its mark on the earth.

The changing earth invites the movement of air.

Seeds begin to loosen from the flowers that once opened towards the sun.

Everything belongs to the same unfolding.

Living with the seasons has taught me that these transitions are rarely dramatic.

They are woven through ordinary mornings and familiar walks.

They ask for nothing more than our attention.

Perhaps this is where the practice begins.

Not on the yoga mat.

Not in the garden.

But in learning to recognise that we, too, belong to these rhythms.

As the season changes, something within us changes with it.

The invitation is simply to notice.

Susanna Syassen