The babies aren’t really babies anymore. I suppose I knew this was going to happen. That is generally what babies do. The little mallards that once stayed tucked together have grown. The young geese that followed their parents through the yard are becoming harder to distinguish from them. The families spread out farther now.
There is more independence. More wandering. More space between them. If I had been watching only occasionally, I might have missed the change. But when you watch something nearly every day, you notice all the tiny ways it becomes different. And there is a strange combination of happiness and sadness in that.
I wanted them to grow. Of course I did. I watched for it. Celebrated it. Wondered when they would begin doing the next thing. And now part of me would like to tell everyone to slow down. Apparently, I would like nature to progress, but only at a pace that is emotionally convenient for me. Nature has declined that request. Again.
The puddle keeps reminding me that change doesn’t always wait until we’re finished with what came before. The water changes. The weather changes. Visitors come and go. Some creatures that were part of my everyday view suddenly become occasional visitors. Others appear without introduction and become part of the story.
Nothing stays exactly as I first discovered it. Neither do people, neither do relationships, neither do we. I think one of the reasons acceptance can be so difficult is because we confuse it with approval. If I accept something, does that mean I’m saying I like it? That I wanted it? That it doesn’t hurt? That I wouldn’t change it if I could? I don’t think so.
Sometimes acceptance is much simpler, and much harder. It is acknowledging: This is what is true now. There are changes in life we celebrate. There are others we tolerate. And there are some we would give almost anything to undo.
Acceptance doesn’t require us to pretend those things feel the same. It simply asks us to stop demanding that today look exactly like yesterday. I can miss the tiny fuzzy babies and still love watching who they are becoming. I can miss someone who no longer visits as often and appreciate them when they return. I can remember how something used to be without believing that the way it was is the only way it could ever be good.
Maybe that’s one of the gentler lessons of watching a season closely. Nothing disappears all at once. One day simply becomes another. The babies grow. The light shifts. The evenings come a little earlier. Summer begins preparing for what comes next long before we are ready to call it over.
And perhaps acceptance happens much the same way. Not as one big moment when we finally declare ourselves okay with everything.
But slowly. Quietly. One reality at a time. This is different now. I may not have chosen it. I may even miss what was. But I am here. And there may still be something worth loving in what comes next.
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