The cold crisp mornings of winter. The sight of our breath rising on the air.
- Santa Montefiore's "The French Gardener"
I have had the good fortune of living in a town that grows oranges; they are coveted worldwide for their particular bursting rich flavor. I have also lived in other remarkable places where every single season is clearly defined: winter, spring, summer, and fall. And what I have found in considering the two is that in places where oranges grow, the boundaries of seasons are far less noticeable, which requires one to pause long enough to actually see what is going on. A New Year brings on similar indicators of restrained change... and it occurs to me that it is worthwhile to take the time to notice.