I walk at the lakeside again. It’s the end of July and Summer has made its full appearance.  It’s been hot and dry for weeks now. Quite unusual for the Netherlands. We’re used to wet Summers. Something to complain about, the weather. Too wet and cold, too dry and hot… Apparently, no enjoyment in either. Maybe it’s what defines people. Always longing for something that’s not there. It takes us to search for meditation courses, yoga classes, mindfulness. To try and get us there, in that particular moment.

So here I am, walking, in an attempt to order my thoughts and organize my head. I don’t feel particularly “in this moment”. Rather rushed, agitated. Similar to the weeks before Christmas. That same kind of hurry and agitation.  As if my life depended on getting things done, finished before the holidays start. To complete things as a necessary condition for enjoying that big moment: Christmas, summer holidays.

I stare ahead at the water. It’s past sunset, but still light. And very quiet. An otter swims along the nearby shore, quietly, purposefully. She’s either not aware of my nearby presence, or chooses to ignore it. Smoothly, she moves through the water and instinctively finds her spot to get on shore. And disappears in the high reeds.

With a clear and peaceful mind, I head back home.

April and May have passed in a moment, with Summer arriving right at the doorstep.

These last days of May were hot, like Summer. In two months time, outside, in nature, a profound change has taken place. At first, there was this slow, gradual change of colours. Some new spring green popping up between wintry brown. And then, a sudden outburst of all kinds of greens, whites and yellows. Birches, beeches, poplars all carrying leaves in different shades of greens. Some, still young, fresh greens. Others already deepening, showing more ripeness of an arriving Summer. Bright yellow dandelions, only to turn to dust and being carried away by the wind a few weeks later. And how I love the scent of Queen Anne’s lace. To me, it’s the scent of May.

No wonder the Church has connected its celebrations with nature. How can you not sing Hallelujah to all this lushness and abundance of colour, scent and sound? And no doubt, this wisdom is shared by other religions too. Because, to me, in its best, most wisest form, religion is an instrument, a language to connect with people and with their everyday existence. To help them step out of the routine and burden of every day life, to take a breath and feel free.  In order to connect anew and fresh again with their daily life.

In that sense, taking a walk through the fields is like lighting a candle and say a prayer in church. Feeling free and opening up to the mystery of being.

February. An “in between” month, I find. There is Winter and there is Spring. And most often (at least in the Netherlands) there is neither. Also, there is Carnival and Lent, exuberant celebration followed by sobriety. I never really know what to do with February. To me, it’s a month of mixed feelings. Of contrasts.

Apparently, the Romans at first had  a 10 month calendar instead of 12 months and did not name this winter period. To me, somehow, that makes sense. What to do with this winter month? After all the light of Christmas and the excitement of a New Year have gone? All you can long for is Spring to come. And when you think it arrived, Winter surprises you with the next bout of cold, frost and miserable weather.

Only later, the Romans added both January and February. February derives from the Latin word ‘februum’, purification. The Romans held a purification ritual at full moon in February.

Lent is also about purification, about letting go of old patterns, habits, views. A reinforcement of the good intentions at the beginning of the year. But deeper than that, because it focuses on what’s to come at Easter.

Still, I feel in between. In between the cold of Winter and the promise of Spring, in between what’s buried inside me and what can arise from me. For now, I have no idea.

January, the start of a new year. To me such a new year feels like an empty page in front of me, ready to be filled with new experiences, new possibilities, new insights. The promise of a new beginning. The freedom to change, to start afresh.

And yet, at the same time, this new beginning entails uncertainties, the unknown. And that can be daunting as well. So, promise and fear at the same time. Both giving a certain excitement, a certain quality to the first weeks of January.

And somewhere around the midst of January – Blue Monday, perhaps? – there’s a subtle change in this first perception of the new year. It loses its magic. Things become familiar again. The same old habits and patterns come to the surface. Routines like work, school, and the hassle of trying to get things organized… nothing really changed, so it seems.

So how can I keep that first promise of the new year alive?

I just step outside with this question, taking a walk through the bare fields near my home. Cold wind touching my face. The smell of mud and water. The sound of my feet on the gravel of the path. Seeing the sun struggling through some dark clouds over the lake. A lake that has been here for centuries, unchanged and changed at the same time. That is what amazes me the most: to be in this place that has been here for thousands of years, where people before lived their lives, with their hopes and fears. So many changes and still the water looks unchanged.

And I feel refreshed again. Knowing that every new year I will discover something new that I can add  to my life. Piece by piece, year by year.