Learning to Carry Seasons With Me: A Geography of Transition

I’m trying to find grounding in seasonal transitions no matter where I am.

This gets complicated when you’ve lived across different regions that all have their own relationship to time and weather. I grew up in the Caribbean where seasons were subtle, and many other places as an adult that taught me about the beauty and nuance of it all. Now I’m on the West Coast, learning to create my own seasonal punctuation marks.

The real work isn’t just noticing seasonal shifts, it’s creating transition practices that work regardless of where I am or what stage of life I’m in. When I was in my twenties experiencing Northern New England winters alone, my seasonal rituals could be elaborate and solitary. Now, with a family, I need practices that fit into our rhythms.

Here’s what I’m experimenting with:

I’m trying out practices learned from the places I’ve lived, but adapted for who I am now; things that can be as simple as lighting a candle during naptime or as involved as a family walk to notice what’s changing.

Kitchen and meals

This works everywhere and adapts to any life situation. Growing up in the tropics, I learned seasons through paying attention to what my body craved as rhythms shifted. The way certain foods felt right at certain times, even when the temperature barely changed.

In colder climates, this became about genuinely needing warming foods through winter, craving fresh things in spring. Now on the West Coast, it’s about honoring what feels right seasonally even when seasonal produce isn’t dramatically different.

Fall means adding more soups and stews to our rotation: butternut squash soup, chicken and dumplings, anything that makes the house smell like home. Winter brings heartier dishes: beef stew, roasted root vegetables, warm oatmeal with cinnamon. Spring calls for lighter things: fresh salads, asparagus, anything green that makes you feel like you’re waking up. Summer is: tomatoes galore, grilled everything, fruit salads that don’t require turning on the oven.

These aren’t elaborate seasonal cooking projects, just small shifts that help us feel connected to time’s passage through what we eat.

Seasonal cleaning

I learned this where seasonal transitions demanded major reorganization: splitting wood, swapping entire wardrobes, adjusting sleep to match wildly shifting daylight.

Now it’s about using seasonal shifts as invitations to let go. Fall cleaning means going through closets and donating what doesn’t fit, kids’ clothes they’ve outgrown, my own clothes that don’t feel right for this phase of life. Spring cleaning is about clearing out the heavy blankets, washing windows, making space for lighter energy. Winter prep is about organizing spaces to feel cozy, rearranging furniture closer, getting out the thick blankets, making everything feel more contained and warm.

With a family, it’s also about creating space for new seasons in our collective life. What patterns aren’t serving us anymore? Sometimes it’s as practical as reorganizing the playroom; sometimes it’s talking about what we want the next season to feel like together.

Energy patterns

This is about honoring how my internal rhythms shift with seasons, regardless of external cues. When days get shorter and colder, we retreat inward, more cozy nights at home, earlier bedtimes, less social plans. When it gets warmer and days get longer, we start going out more, planning adventures, feeling more expansive and social.

Even where seasons are subtle, this pattern holds. Winter energy calls for hibernation and introspection. Summer energy wants expansion and activity.

Books and daily rhythms

This is huge for us. We rotate books in our daily basket to match seasonal energy. For the kids: fall brings books about harvest, pumpkins, changing leaves. Winter is hibernating animals, snow stories, cozy fireside tales. Spring means seeds and growth, baby animals, everything waking up. Summer is adventure stories, ocean books, anything about being outside.

For me, colder months call for fantasy novels, thick books that help me hibernate mentally. Poetry collections that match the introspective mood. Cookbooks focused on comfort food. Summer means lighter reads; memoirs, beach novels, anything I can read outside without feeling like I need to disappear into another world.

We also adjust our daily rhythms. Winter evenings are longer and cozier; more time for reading together, earlier dinners, candles lit before sunset. Summer evenings stretch later, with outdoor time and later bedtimes that match the longer light.

These small shifts in what we read and how our days flow help create the seasonal punctuation marks I’m looking for. They’re small changes that acknowledge time’s passage and help us participate consciously in natural rhythms, even when the weather doesn’t force dramatic adjustments on us.

I’m still figuring out what practices feel most grounding, still learning how to honor the seasonal wisdom each region taught me while staying present to wherever I actually am. I’m realizing the goal isn’t to recreate seasons from anywhere I’ve been, but to keep marking time with enough intention that I don’t miss the turning of it.