On the Passage of Seasons

(UNIT 503) The tiny home I affectionately dubbed "The Shoebox." (Photo taken by the author.)

(UNIT 503) The tiny home I affectionately dubbed “The Shoebox.” (Photo taken by the author.)

There’s a particular time in my life that I idealize: the three something years I spent right after my resignation from the corporate world in pursuit of a masters degree in philosophy.

In those days, I lived in a studio apartment just fractionally larger than a shoebox, in a complex that was across the street from the university where I studied and taught. Every day, I walked ten minutes over a bridge then through a field, watching the sunlight evade the branches of spindly trees only to shatter against the dewdrops on the blades of grass. Days passed with clockwork precision in a tightly regimented ballet of yoga, breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, dinner, reading, studying and writing.

At least once a year, for about three to six weeks, I left the country to see the world (and possibly find myself; or perhaps lose myself; one forgets after enough findings and losings).

Much of this time was spent in solitude, and I ate so little in those days that even my skinniest clothes were falling off me.

In hindsight, it was a time of hibernation: a three year period of silent gestation and quiet germination. It was as if my life was folding tightly into itself, in anticipation of some massive and radical uncoiling.

When the budding came, it was glorious too (and blinding, and searing, and destructive, in the way supernovas are).

Now, some three something years after the unfolding, there’s a tapering of energy—a settling that’s midway between the solipsism of winter and the promiscuity of spring.

As always, I find myself caught unawares, suspended between my nostalgia for the past and my longing for the future.

(Question: How do you navigate the present when the moment’s forever slipping away from under your feet? Answer: You stumble along, merrily or otherwise; though merrily is best.)

But there’s grace here too in simply noticing the seasons. We go round and round—until someday…we don’t.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

T.S. Eliot


4 thoughts on “On the Passage of Seasons

    • Eileen says:

      Hi right back, Chely! 😀 Thank you for taking the time to read my stuff and to leave a comment. Hearing from readers always makes my day. Have a great week ahead! 🙂


  1. Issa says:

    Hey Eileen,

    Happy New Year! Reading your post, it just dawned on me that what you went through three years ago is exactly what is happening in my life at the moment! I could never put a word on it before…I’m in Italy at the moment studying piano (final year of my bachelors degree before choosing my masters…), experiencing the joys of independent living and solitude for the first time. And everything seems so new, intense yet completely surreal and detached…Really like a lucid dream! As much as I do enjoy the experience, I know it’s just a transition period, transformation into something else (whatever it may be…).

    Thank you for your thoughts and writings! It’s always a joy to read you. 🙂


    • Eileen says:

      Issa!!! Long time no hear! Happy happy New Year, and congratulations on having continued to pursue your dreams. 😀 It’s a beautiful time of life for you so enjoy it to the fullest! No point in thinking about what lies ahead as life will always pull the rug out from under your feet anyway, haha! Thank you for the warm acknowledgment as it makes a huge difference, and stay in touch! 😀


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