Seasonality

Or A time of Renewal

“That’s a gingko tree! Did you know ginkgo trees lose all their leaves in a period of 24 hours?” I ask my husband, as we drive down a street lined with burning yellow trees. “Yes,” he says, “You say the same factoid every single time we pass a gingko tree.” I can’t help it; it’s a fascinating  piece of trivia, and I clearly like to share it. (And it’s true, by the way.)

The seasons in California are so different from the Midwest, where I grew up. Here, everything is subtle, a gentle elision from September to December where the leaves drop a few at a time, the rain whispers every so often, the darkness creeps in, almost imperceptible. I lift my head and realize it’s the end of December, and some trees have yet to drop their leaves. Are we even in winter yet?

As we arrive at the cusp of a new year, I’m inundated on social media with re-caps of 2023: big highlights, achievements, the proud moments that people have experienced in the last year. I’m tempted to join in. The version of this blog that I drafted in my head had a whole list of statistics from this year — students taught, videos made, blogs written, blah blah blah. 

But I decided I didn’t need to shout it from the rooftops (no shade on those that want to share their accomplishments from the past year!), because in reality, I’ve felt like I haven’t made anything recently, and the statistics dump would just be a cover for my lack. I relay these feelings to my husband, saying I’ve been in a season of non-creation; he says “Write a blog post on that,” and here we are. 

I think about the last choreographic work I self-produced in 2022, and ponder if I’ll do something like that again. The compulsion isn’t there yet, which makes me feel part sad, part relieved, part freed. I liken myself to a corpse plant, only blooming every few years, and I think about other plants that quietly exist for long stretches without flowering or bearing fruit. We accept that as part of their nature, but when it comes to ourselves, we feel the pressure to constantly be the best version of ourselves, optimized, productive, headed in a direction, flowering on schedule. Most of society demands that we work like this, not acknowledging that we’re more than a series of inputs and outputs, and that rest is actually an essential part of doing our best work. 

I’m reminded of a book I read a few years ago: Wintering, The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. It’s likely filed under “self-help” as it’s one of those books that combines personal growth narrative with stories of natural/cultural/scientific phenomena designed to give more credence to the author’s overall point (much in the style of this blog, I suppose), which centers on the author’s journey through grief, loss, and challenges framed as her personal “winter.” As the lights of the holidays fade, and we’re left in the cold darkness of January and February, it may feel like there are few bright spots ahead and surviving is all we’re capable of. 

From Wintering: “Nature shows us that survival is a practice. Sometimes it flourishes — lays on fat, garlands itself in leaves, makes abundant honey— and sometimes it pares back to the very basics of existence in order to keep living. It doesn’t do this once, resentfully, assuming that one day it will get things right and everything will smooth out. It attends to this work each and everyday. For plants and animals, winter is part of the job. The same is true for humans.” 

This blog post makes it sound like I’m really experiencing hardship. I’m not — I’m just trying to be graceful and gentle with myself when creativity isn’t flowing, work things feel like work, and cooking a meal and reading a book feels like my only interests at the moment. Be kind to yourself when you feel the same. 

As we enter the flurry of new year’s resolutions, I’ll be focusing on just sinking gently into reflecting on the year past and looking brightly at the year ahead, allowing dormancy to last as long as it lasts, trusting that spring will come again.