Micro Seasons

It was a morning last weekend, from my normal coffee drinking spot, that I could see the sun cross the eastern horizon for the first time since last October. Over the coming Winter and Spring mornings I will watch as its path sweeps Northward, with speed at first, before it lingers near its highest point coinciding with the heat of the Summer, and then as it descends back Southward and out of view again this Fall. Also on this same morning, I was welcomed with the song of a Western Meadowlark when I stepped out the door. I would have brushed it off if the melody wasn't so distinctive, due to how early it is to be hearing such birds in Flagstaff. I was too slow to get out my Merlin app for confirmation but I'm quite certain of what I heard. These little signs of the ever changing seasons is there for you to notice if you look. The only framework in which Winter is one day and Spring the next is in the Julian calendar, but the birds don't hang calendars next to their nests. The seasons are ever evolving, in small increments nearly every day. The Japanese recognize this cyclic evolution as Ko, which is 72, 5 day long microseasons throughout the year, coinciding with natural occurrences like when the ice first starts to melt, when the cherry blossoms bloom, and tracking migration patterns of animals.

I did not use to recognize these small signs before I started a practice of Nature Journaling. I mostly held to the monthly calendar and planned life accordingly. Time was measured in days and weeks. I live differently now. I track Spring and Summer by the order of flowers that bloom in my backyard and in the forest. I watch the mountain as a bright green travels upward with new leaf growth according to elevation, and then again in the Fall as the direction reverses but in a shock of orange, yellow, and red. I know the length of the day according to when the fawns loose their spots and the bucks grow their antlers.

This noticing slows down time. The monotony of a work week is broken. When Monday rolls around again, it doesn't feel like the same as before because although I sit at my desk just as seven days prior with the same weekly meetings on my calendar and the same tasks to complete, I know something outside has changed and I will discover it on my lunch break walk.         

When I flip through my old illustrations in my journals, I see a record of these microseasons exactly how I observed them. And I remember. I remember where I was that late Summer day, excited to draw the Cutleaf Cone flower with the warm sun on my back. I remember what it felt like to be sitting on the forest floor after the first monsoon with the smell of petrichor thick in the air. The act of recording these moments of time in the context of the natural world reminds me life isn't just a series of Mondays to overcome. Time is more tangible, and when I look back, it is more full of life than it was before.