Seasons

I am sitting on the dusty blue sofa of my dear sister-friend on the border of Ixelles (my neighbourhood) and Saint-Gilles (her neighbourhood) in Brussels, Belgium.  This summer, while she has been off exploring Africa and Spain, I’ve been left in charge of her fledgling windowsill herb garden.  (I say ‘erb garden,’ she’d say ‘herb garden’. I say ‘tomayto,’ she’d say ‘tomato.’)  Yesterday, I tried my hand at making pudding (not from a box!) using a sprig of the rosemary that I’ve been tending all summer. Today, I added some fresh chives into my egg white omelet. (Waste not, want not, that’s what they say.)

It has been a glorious summer, not because of exotic adventures or a beach holiday, but because of the calm, quiet space to close my eyes, take a deep breath in and out and take note of where I am.

My body has soaked up the occasional bursts of sunshine on the balcony, while my soul has been soaking in the words found in Galatians 5.  Early in August, I’d pause at these verses: ‘The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love. You were running a good race. Who cut in on you to keep you from obeying the truth?’(Galatians 5:6b-7 The Message). 

Late in August, I’m seeking to be formed by these: ‘But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.’ (Galatians 5:22-23 The Message).  

Seasons: summer, fall, winter and spring.  Seasons for bearing fruit, for harvesting, for resting, for growing and then starting all over again.

Last week, a friend organized for us to have a ‘color analysis’—you know, like they did in the 90’s?  Turns out I am a warm spring, at least that’s what she told me. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what to do with that information, other than use it as an excuse to clean out my wardrobe.

Nonetheless, seasons. They matter. They mark our days like chapters in a book.

Sister-friend returns today, so I’ve been washing linens and putting the flat back in order to welcome her home, while packing up my suitcase to travel the ten-minute tram ride back home to Place Flagey.  She’ll be full of tales learned along the pilgrim's trail, and I’ll be full of tales grown in the soil of my own body, mind and spirit because that is where I've been; it's where I am.

This was the summer of staying.