Seasons

Before you knew my name, you knew my touch. I am the reason you feel a sudden, hopeful warmth on your skin after months of cold, a gentle breeze that whispers of new beginnings and melting snow. I am the artist who swaps the deep greens of the world for a breathtaking canvas of fiery red, brilliant orange, and shimmering gold. I am the silence that falls with the first blanket of snow, the satisfying crunch of your boots on a frozen path, and the architect of delicate, icy patterns on your windowpane. I am the lazy, buzzing hum of a long summer afternoon, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the feeling of the sun lingering long into the evening. I am the planet’s heartbeat, its ancient and unending rhythm. For as long as life has existed, I have been its silent partner, telling animals when to burrow deep for a long sleep and when to build a nest for new arrivals. I am the signal that tells great herds to travel thousands of miles in search of food and prompts the geese to paint V-shapes across the sky. I am a constant cycle of farewells and new hellos, of rest and energetic awakening. You might know me by four different names—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. But together, I am the Seasons.

My existence is a secret written in the stars, a grand performance played out across the cosmos. For a long time, humans thought my warmth or cold came from how close your planet, Earth, was to its star, the Sun. It’s a logical guess, but the truth is far more elegant. Think of the Earth as a magnificent dancer, spinning gracefully on its own axis. As it spins, it also performs a much larger waltz, a year-long journey orbiting the Sun. But here is the crucial secret: this dancer doesn’t stand up perfectly straight. It leans. The Earth is tilted on its axis by 23.5 degrees, a permanent, gentle lean that changes everything. This tilt is the reason I exist. As your planet waltzes around the Sun, that tilt means that for part of the year, one half of the world—the Northern Hemisphere, for example—is angled more directly toward the Sun’s powerful rays. The light hits more like a spotlight, direct and intense, bringing the long, warm days of summer. Meanwhile, the Southern Hemisphere is tilted away, getting the Sun’s energy at a slant, like a soft, glancing light. Those weaker rays bring the shorter, cooler days of winter. Then, as the Earth continues its dance, the roles reverse. The Southern Hemisphere gets its turn in the spotlight, and summer arrives there while winter blankets the north. This is why a snowy December day in Canada is a perfect beach day in Australia. I am a story of balance. My most dramatic moments are called solstices. Around June 21st, the summer solstice in the north is the longest day of the year, the peak of the Sun’s power. The winter solstice, near December 21st, is the shortest, a time of deep rest and long nights. Twice a year, however, the dancer strikes a perfect pose. Around March 20th and September 22nd are the equinoxes, when the tilt is neither toward nor away from the Sun, but perfectly sideways. On these days, day and night are almost exactly equal all over the world. Long before modern telescopes, ancient people understood my rhythm. They were brilliant astronomers who built incredible monuments like Stonehenge in England, where massive stones align perfectly with the sunrise on the summer solstice. They didn't just notice my changes; they measured them, celebrated them, and built their lives around my steady, predictable dance.

My rhythm doesn't just shape the weather; it shapes life itself. I am the silent partner to every farmer, the unseen hand that guides their work. I whisper when the soil is ready for seeds in the spring and when the golden wheat is ready for harvest in the autumn. I determine which fruits ripen and when the apples and pumpkins are ready to be gathered. My predictable cycle gave humans the ability to plan, to grow food, and to build civilizations. This deep connection is why I am woven into the very fabric of human culture. I am the inspiration for countless holidays and festivals that celebrate my turning points. You can see me in the vibrant spring festivals that welcome new life, like the cherry blossom viewing in Japan. You feel my energy in midsummer celebrations that honor the Sun’s peak power. You taste my generosity in autumn harvest feasts like Thanksgiving, and you find comfort in the cozy, light-filled gatherings during the deep winter. I am also a muse. I have inspired artists to paint the fiery leaves of fall and the soft pastels of spring. I am in the powerful notes of Vivaldi’s music, “The Four Seasons,” where you can hear the storms of summer and the quiet hush of winter snow. Poets have filled pages trying to capture the hopeful feeling of a spring morning or the reflective melancholy of an autumn dusk. I am more than just a scientific process; I am a constant reminder that change is the most natural thing in the world. I teach patience, for after every long, cold winter, spring is always on its way, promising renewal and growth. I teach hope, showing everyone that even after a period of rest and quiet, there is always a time for vibrant new life to begin again.