Turn, Turn, Turn

I open the closet door and Sammy’s arms fall at my feet.

Don’t worry. He’s a mannequin. Sammy had an accident earlier this year, tumbling off his rod when I scooched him behind the curtain in the sewing loft. So his arms now reside in The Closet.

A long, narrow attic space under the eaves at the top of the stairs, carpeted with the remnants of a 70s era shag, The Closet is my version of my Granna’s storage building. She named hers “Purgatory”. It fit.

Here reside, in a holding pattern, all generally-past-prime or rarely-called-into-service things I keep tucked away for a rainy day. Literally, it is raining today, and I need to find some floral wire to finish an autumnal wreath. That’s appropriate, too. Fall is to me the season when everything vigorous begins to wane, to be tucked into bed (or a cozy closet) for a long winter’s nap, awaiting in hope that Spring will, indeed, come.

Spring resides in The Closet, in the Very Back. It shows itself in my box of childhood and youth memorabilia: the resin Cocker Spaniel bank, the sheet music for flute for Scarborough Fair, the cheerleading plaque. There lies the flower garland from my friends’ wedding. I hold it in my hands and remember the beauty of the day, the laughter, the utter joy. Spring feels invincible. When we’re in it, when we are living the Spring of our lives, we feel invincible. Days stretch forever. And then we turn and it is Summer.

Summer is in the boxes of toys and books, vestiges of the Good Old Days when I was young and fearless and full of children and song. I love summer, with its greening and its growth and its fruit. I always hate to see it end and turn into fall, when the baby birds move on and the leaves let go. I’m not so good at letting go. I thought I was, but evidence crowds the close walls of The Closet.

Ah, Sammy. His open palms are turned up. Let go, he says.

The leaves are turning, breathtakingly gorgeous, gloriously blazing in their true colors after slipping off chlorophyll masks of green. Soon, they will release themselves from the branches and become airborne, flying in the wind or freely floating on the calm. It is a new season, one of harvest and gratitude and acknowledgement of winter’s approach, when the migrating birds will settle and nights lengthen.

I turn up my open hands to release, that I may receive the blessing, embrace the cycle.

To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1