At the close of his book Dance for Two, Alan Lightman writes:
‘The earth wobbled imperceptibly on its axis, as bits of cosmic debris randomly bombarded it from space. One such piece of debris, billions of years in the past, had struck with unusual force and cocked the planet over, producing a tilt of twenty three degrees, producing uneven heating as the earth orbited the sun, producing the seasons.”*
We are seasonal people, the product of our world. Sometimes it’s summer, other times winter – this is our story. And through the seasons we produce our stories. Anne Lamott’s honesty more than reminds me of the reality of our seasonality. She writes:
‘We’d prefer routine, predictability, to never be ashamed or afraid, let alone aghast. […] In lovely closed systems, timers are set: tick, tick, tick.’**
Though life becomes longer it also becomes emptier.