Trusting the Seasons of the Soul
There is a quiet wisdom woven into the rhythms of nature, a deep knowing that does not rush or force but trusts in the unfolding of time. A tree, standing through the long winter, does not despair when the winds howl through its branches, nor does it doubt the promise of spring. Though stripped of its leaves, though its bark is stiff with frost and its roots encased in ice, the tree remains. It does not surrender to the bleakness of the moment, nor does it sever itself from the earth that holds it. The tree waits, knowing that within its silent limbs, life still hums, waiting for its appointed hour to emerge again in green abundance.
How often, in the winter of our own lives, do we forget this wisdom? When hardship overtakes us—when sorrow, disappointment, or uncertainty darkens our horizon—we are tempted to act from a place of fear or despair. In these moments, the heart grows restless, searching for escape, for resolution, for an end to the discomfort that gnaws at our being. We may be tempted to cut away what is still vital, to abandon what only appears lifeless, to make decisions from a place of pain rather than peace. But to act in the depths of winter, when the storm is still raging, is to risk cutting down what might yet bear fruit in a gentler season.
Patience is not an easy virtue. It requires a kind of trust that goes beyond our immediate perception, a belief in the unseen workings of time. To wait is to acknowledge that we do not yet see the whole picture, that there are forces at work beyond our understanding. It is an act of surrender, not to helplessness, but to wisdom—to the knowing that all things shift and change, that the coldest nights will eventually yield to the warmth of the sun.
There are seasons in the soul just as there are in nature. There are times when the light is clear and strong, when decisions come easily, when our path is illuminated with certainty. And then there are times when we walk through shadow, when doubt presses upon us, when the way ahead is obscured by mist and rain. It is in these darker seasons that we must be most careful, most tender with ourselves. The decisions we make in sorrow are often ones we later wish we could undo, for they are not made from our wholeness but from our wounds.
A person in sorrow sees the world through a different lens—colors appear faded, joys feel distant, and hope seems an illusion. But just as winter does not erase the reality of spring, neither does a moment of suffering erase the deeper goodness of life. What is needed is not hasty action, but a quiet patience, a willingness to trust that clarity will return in its own time.
Consider the farmer who, in the cold months, does not tear up his fields simply because they appear barren. He knows that beneath the surface, unseen to the eye, the seeds are resting, gathering strength. He knows that winter is not the end of growth, but a necessary pause, a time of gestation and preparation. And so he waits, trusting in the return of warmth, in the rain that will soften the ground, in the sun that will call forth new life.
So too must we trust. When we find ourselves in the depths of sorrow or anger, when we feel lost or uncertain, we must resist the urge to act impulsively, to make decisions that might sever us from the future joys that still await. Instead, we must learn the art of waiting, of allowing time to do its quiet work. We must cultivate a patience that does not seek immediate relief but instead trusts in the slow, steady turning of the seasons.
For the storm will pass. The cold will not last forever. And when spring does return, when the world is warmed by light once more, we will see with new eyes. We will find that what seemed barren still held life, that what we nearly abandoned was worth keeping, that the choices we did not make in haste have left us with a path still rich with possibility.
And so, let us not cut down the tree in winter. Let us not make our most weighty decisions in the hour of our greatest sorrow. Let us be patient, even when patience feels impossible. Let us trust in the unseen rhythms of life, in the slow, steady work of healing, in the quiet promise that, no matter how long the winter lingers, the spring will surely come.
BLESSING
My dear Friend,
May you be blessed with the patience of the ancient trees, standing firm through the long winter, trusting in the quiet work of time. When hardship arrives and the path ahead is uncertain, may you find the wisdom to pause rather than act from a place of fear or sorrow. May you remember that even when the landscape of your life feels barren, unseen forces are still at work, preparing the ground for renewal.
May you have the courage to trust that no winter lasts forever. When doubts press upon you and the weight of uncertainty grows heavy, may you resist the urge to make decisions that cut away what may yet bear fruit. Instead, may you find solace in knowing that life moves in cycles, that even the longest storms must eventually pass, and that what seems lifeless now may one day flourish again.
May the light of patience find its way into your heart, reminding you that waiting is not idleness but an act of trust. May you be granted the grace to hold steady, knowing that clarity will come in its own time. And when the season of renewal finally arrives, may you stand in its warmth with gratitude, knowing that by waiting, you have allowed life to unfold in its own perfect rhythm.
I love You,
Alma
