Flowers grow along the road

Lately, I’ve felt as though I’m stepping into a new season of my life: one that is simultaneously lonelier and more freeing than what I’ve yet experienced.

The cyclical patterns of the seasons also seem to present a false dichotomy of exciting progression and painful change. Every evening for the past several weeks, I’ve raced to catch the sun setting behind the Utah mountains to the west. The days are getting shorter. I’m missing more and more of the sunsets, but my walks home are temporarily embellished by golden sunlight kissing the eastern peaks.

What I mean to say is, I’m growing up.

It’s great. It’s also terrifying.

I live in anticipation. But also anxiousness.

I chase new goals. But I mourn lost days.

The new season of my life whispers its approach through the little things: where I was once a brand-new college freshman stepping onto a strange campus all alone, I am now preparing to graduate and pursue full-time work. Campus is comfortable; I pass someone I know at least twice a day. Where I once daydreamed about a white wedding with hundreds of flowers and ribbons, I am now preparing mentally to support myself through full-time work – alone. Where I once was afraid to go to the grocery store down the street, I now feel a deep-rooted calling to seek out the far corners of the world.

A little over a week ago, I drove up the mountain to catch the sunset. I found beautiful wild sunflowers growing along the road, and my symbolism-oriented mind instantly drew parallels: each day is the day I’m living, and my opportunities to see figurative “flowers” are finite.

Each season brings its own genre of beautiful things:

The summer’s wildflowers and fiery sunsets.

The autumn’s warm leaves and rustic air.

The winter’s crystal snows and sleeping trees.

The spring’s dewdrops and new growth.

I’m about to graduate from college. The sunsets in this period of my life are numbered. Time is moving far more quickly than I’ve realized, and I desperately need those wildflower moments.

Graduation is a lonely season. It has brought me many lessons, and I’m sure I’ll find plenty more than the week alone is finished. This is a season that serves a purpose and extends unique invitations for reflection – it’s a turning point.

Of all I’ve learned over the past year, however, the first and most striking takeaway I’ve gathered is this: 

I do not have time for things that do not change.

Life functions in cycles. Seasons come and go. Waters rise and fall. Moments of plateau don’t really exist; we are always moving. To believe we can remain comfortably in one place forever is to do a disservice to you and the ones you love.

And so we press forward, on towards whatever might come next, with a mind that is open to the changes and an eye that watches for the flowers.