The gray season

“Grace makes beauty out of ugly things.”  -U2

You are lucky, and lucky indeed, if you live where you can fully and deeply experience each of the four seasons. By this I mean all four of them, in all of their beauty, in all of their glory, in all of their purity. A real winter, a real spring, a real summer, and most importantly, a real genuine autumn.

This is important.

I once lived down South – too far down south – and went a whole year without winter. At another time in my life, I resided so high up in the mountains that there was very little, indeed, precious little summer. And in both cases I found myself feeling somehow, somewhat empty inside, as if there were a huge lack, or void, in my life because I had “missed” one of the four seasons – in more ways than one.

And so, ever since then, I have made sure to live far enough north (but not too far) and at a low enough elevation (but not too low) so that I can really, truly appreciate all four of the sacred seasons, and both passively and actively participate in their comings and their goings. Indeed, there are rituals to perform. Traditions to observe. Sights to see, sounds to hear, tomatoes and apples and venison and fudge to eat. These things must be done. Come summer, come fall, come winter, come spring.

Come one more time.

However, living here in Southwestern Colorado I have noticed that there are more seasons than just the usual four typically mentioned. There are at least five. Possibly six. What the hay, there may very well be seven or eight different seasons around here. I don’t know. But I do know one thing for sure. There are at least five seasons.

For there is, also, the gray season.

Now, “the gray season,” at least to me, is the period of time between autumn and winter when everything suddenly turns gray outside. There seems to be a strange interval, or cosmic pause, that comes just after the spectacular colors and leaves of fall have fallen, and just before the brilliant snows of winter have painted the mountains white. The land becomes gloomy and gray, spectral and mysterious, almost like an unseen actor changing costumes between acts of a play, or a freight train stopping out in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason, or the static that you hear on the radio in between stations. In general, an almost-unseen, almost-unspoken grayness envelopes the earth, and saturates the scenery, and permeates the air. Everything just turns gray.

Plain gray.

The trees turn gray, the bushes turn gray, the sagebrush turns gray, the weeds turn gray. The mountains and hills and mesas turn gray. The pasture, the garden, the woodpile turns gray. Everything gray. Even the very heavens become ashen, as the clouds of silver and slate and almost black crowd out the normally neon-blue Colorado sky. Gray, gray, gray. Everywhere gray.

But that’s OK.

Because I happen to like the color.

Here in the Four Corners region, the gray season, or “fifth season,” usually begins in mid- to late-October, and continues on through most of November, and even some years well into December. And while it may look drab and dreary outside, it is actually a cheerful time of year, at least for some of us. For this is the season of the World Series, of the hunt, of harvest, of Halloween, of my father’s birthday, of Thanksgiving, of giving thanks and appreciating blessings. This period, this stretch, this spell, if you will, comes roughly halfway between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice (always two of my favorite days), and foretells the imminent coming of Christmas and the new year, and even springtime, for without November there would be no May.

For one comes only after the other.

And then before.

Yes, there is something very special, and reassuring, and even comforting about the gray season. Comforting like an old gray blanket made out of wool. Comforting like a favorite mountain made out of granite. Comforting like storm clouds, and smoke from a campfire, and roasted meat. Comforting like ashes, and fur, and dirt, and mud, and rock, and old wood. Comforting like little gray sparrows, and a cat named Smokey, and the color of my mother’s hair.

For gray is the culmination of all of the other colors, and from whence all of the colors come from.

Mix all of the other colors together – red, green, yellow, purple, etc. – and you get gray. Take all of the other colors away, and all you have left is gray.

Because, you see, gray is the color of twilight, when secrets are divulged, and mysteries revealed. Indeed, gray was the shade of light to first come out of the night, first to come out of the darkness, first to emanate from the Divine, first to evolve from the Void.

Gray is the first color, and the last color, and therefore the most enlightening and illuminating of all the colors.

Because, without gray, there would be no other colors, or, at the very least, the other colors would not appear so vivid and bright and pleasurable to the eyes.

Likewise, without “the gray season” there would be no winter of dazzling white, no springtime of emerald green, no summer of rainbows and wildflowers, no autumn of red and orange and gold.

So enjoy, enjoy these gray days of October and November, this gray and gloomy and surreal time of year in between the colors of fall and the snowfall of winter.

Yes, savor, truly savor this grayest of seasons.

While you still can.

– Curt Melliger