We are told by well meaning poets and prophets alike to look at the seasons. In their changing, in the fact of the inevitable-ness of their changing, we see a metaphor for life that reminds us that change will come regardless of our attempts to hold it back. Like the seasons, our life will go through periods of change.
Yet I find this comparison lacking. In a month or so, when the leaves change and loosen their grips on the branches, and when the air blows through town with a faint whiff of coolness, it will be something familiar. Different, yes, from the searing heat and humidity our locale affords us. But familiar all the same, for I know what Autumn feels like.
I've found that when my life goes through change, it's never something familiar. It is always foreign, the product of some distant reality that I have not been given the tools to deal with. People tell me change will come, there is a season for everything.
The bitch is that, where real life is concerned, there are an infinite number of seasons, not just four.