Today is September 1. And so begins my favorite season. I don’t know what the official date of fall is — I suppose I could google it. But regardless, I love the coziness that this season brings: hotdogs roasted on a fire, hot chocolate and sweatshirts, leaves circling lazily to the ground.
It’s unusually cool here in Keene actually. Yesterday when I drove to work, it was 69 degrees out. That’s unheard of. It inspired me to take a look at the Farmer’s Almanac later in the day and my hopeful suspicions were confirmed: we are slated to have a colder than normal winter.
YES.
Of course, this is Keene, Texas. “Colder than normal” doesn’t really rank in the “Wisconsin cold” category; but that’s okay. I’ll take it.
The other day I was talking with a student, and I asked him what his favorite season is. And then he, of course, asked for mine…and I really couldn’t answer. Because the truth of it is, I just love every season. I eagerly anticipate it as each one has its own bounty. Maybe that’s an age thing — this gradual appreciation for everything life has to offer. Or, maybe it’s just me unable to make a decision. I tend to have issues with that as well.
I bought this journal awhile back that has 365 short entries. The purpose is to write in it over the course of a year: an entry per day. But of course, that’s not how I roll. That’s way too rigid for my style. And so, as it goes, I tend to answer several entries each time I pick it up; but then I’ll go a few days without writing in it. It’s okay. Most likely it will still take me a year to work through it. Anyway, one of the questions posed is, what was the best year of your life.
And that got me thinking. I scanned my life quickly, starting at my childhood: growing up in Seiling, my parents’ divorce, high school with all of its emotional turbulence, heading to college and meeting Roy, whisking away to Colorado and our first year of marriage, beginning our family and the loss of Ciara, boarding schools and friendships and church and camping and activities that blur together over a 30 year marriage spread…and then now: 50 years old with two grown children and one in high school.
Where did the years go? And how does one choose the best one in the mix?
And so I left that question blank. Because I didn’t know which one to pluck from the “bowl of years” as the very best one. So many of those years were great; and some were struggle — as life seems to go. But none rose to the top as singularly the best one yet.
Recently, my very adorable nephew Caleb and I were talking. I love it when this boy happens by and strikes up a conversation. He’s such a cutie — handsome and funny and quite intelligent. And he said, “You know, what makes a great life is relationships and experiences.”
And that, of course, got me thinking. I am so blessed with relationships. I have the best of husbands, the best of sisters, the best of kids, the best of family, the best of friends — the best for me, anyway. But when it comes to experiences? Well, I tend to be a hair bit lazy. I can easily fall into the grind of going to work every day and coming home in the evening to hang out on my back porch and watch the sun go down. I love home and my days can seamlessly blend together as one if I’m not purposeful about getting out and creating experiences in my world.
And so…between the beginning of a new season, my cute nephew’s wise statement, and the question in my journal, I am committed to living my best year yet. I am going to fill it up with relationships and experiences that take my breath away.
And then the next time the question is posed: what was your very best year? I can easily pluck this one from the mix:
My very best year? Oh, without question — when I was 50. That year can’t be beat.
And so on…until this life is over and I am looking forward to the next piece of the journey, and looking back with no regrets.
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