It is one of those gray days in early autumn Wisconsin. The wind is grabbing at the maple trees in front of my old house, but only an occasional leaf is torn loose. They are not yet falling in basketfuls. The trees are still green enough to resist the wind’s aggression. It is a winter wind on this early autumn day, but the land and all that’s living will not succumb to it. We all still believe in summer. We are not indifferent to the wind; just strong enough to insist on a proper schedule of events; everything in its season.

We all believe in seasons. It is one of our methods of self-justification. We prefer the summer of joy, but we accept the autumn of sorrow because of our spring of error, and in the end we find the winter of death, still hoping for an errorless spring.

It is true that the trees will become brittle after they are burned by the frost a few times, and they will be unable to resist the wind, and will be stripped bare. It is true that sorrow and suffering over our errors will weaken and age our bodies, and tire our minds. It is true that we will find it more and more difficult to resist the winter.

The trees will only lose their leaves. They will blossom and grow bigger in the spring. The frost will not burn deep enough to touch their hearts. We are not as strong as trees. The frost of error and sorrow will reach our hearts. We will lose much more than leaves. We will lose the infinite possibilities to love those we love, that remain in the human beings we leave behind, upon our flight into winter.

Animals adapt to the seasons. They find ways to survive the weather. We do the same. Animals eventually die. We do the same. We may protect our body. We may protect our mind. We may not protect our heart. It will only smother.

We believe in the seasons. There is only one season for the heart; the season of love. The heart is meant to be the permanent sun in an eternal summer of love. The heart must force its summer of love against the autumn frost and winter wind of sorrow and shame. Love is not an integral part of nature. It explodes out of what is natural as love and becomes the life of what it sprang from. All that we are, that we have condemned to the winter of death, can only recover by loving. In human life there is only summer.

As I look out the kitchen window, a few snow flurries dance in the air. I watch them dissolve on the green grass. I think of my one year old daughter, and my two year old son. At forty-one I hope I am still green enough to fight off enough winters to see them grow up. I really hope that my love for them will be enough to push summer right into forever.