Spring never arrives on a Tuesday. It sneaks in through a single warm afternoon in late February, the smell of wet soil, a robin that came back too early. Summer lingers long past the equinox—in golden hour light, in the sound of crickets stubbornly singing through September. Autumn’s first red leaf often falls while summer still has legal custody of the sky. And winter? It doesn't wait for the solstice. It arrives with the first frost that cracks the puddles before Thanksgiving.
Because the calendar doesn’t decide when you turn a page. You do. And sometimes the most honest thing you can say is: I don’t know what season this is. But I’m here in it. seasons start and end dates
Maybe that’s why we feel off when we try to live by strict dates. We think: It’s spring now, I should feel new. It’s December, I should be merry. It’s October, I should be cozy and wise. Spring never arrives on a Tuesday
Let yourself live in the in-between. The day the snow melts but the trees are still bare. The first humid morning before the solstice. That one perfect October afternoon that feels like a memory before it ends. Autumn’s first red leaf often falls while summer
But inner seasons don’t obey the calendar either. Sometimes we’re still grieving in June. Sometimes we bloom in November. Sometimes we need to hibernate in April.
And that’s enough.