Seasons of the Soul Part II

Each season of my soul had an auditory element in song and a visual element in art that also acted as spiritual teachers, speaking to my heart and soul. Together, certain songs and a particular type of painting captured the flavor of the season. Spring’s song was Nat King Cole’s The Very Thought of You. I remember the silky sound of Nat’s voice singing, “The very thought of you . . . I’m living in a kind of daydream, I’m happy as a king, and foolish though it may seem, to me it’s everything . . .” In my work with patients, I saw how each of us lives in our waking dream. For me, Monet’s art with its vibrant and dreamy quality touched me during the springtime of my soul.

I thought of songs by Frank Sinatra for the next two seasons. For summer, The Summer Wind, echoed in my mind. In describing the summer wind, the song always made me think of the winds of the other seasons. Each one impacts our body and soul differently. Spring’s cool breezes. Autumn’s sudden gusts. Winter’s bone-chilling blasts. But it was in New York City and not New England that I really encountered the winter wind.

For five years, I worked and lived in New England during the week, but on the weekend I lived in New York in an apartment on the East Side of Manhattan. No cold could cut through me like the bone-chilling blasts I felt when I would walk from the East Side to the Theater District in Midtown Manhattan. The winter wind would whip through the wind-tunnels formed by the corridor of skyscrapers encasing the cross-town streets. These streets provide a tight tunnel for the winds of winter coming off the water surrounding the island of Manhattan. You freeze your you know what off as winds weave through the city streets uniting East and West.

During the summer of my soul, I had discovered Photo-Realism. One hot summer day, I had been wandering in Lower Manhattan through the streets of Soho when I stepped into a gallery off of Prince Street. The clarity of the subject matter, whether an old car or set of buildings, jarred my senses, and struck a vibrant chord in my soul. The paintings seemed more real than photographs; they possessed a perfect symmetry and an unattainable beauty. Plato’s idealism married Aristotle’s realism in these colorful canvases.
One painting that etched itself into my memory brought to life the mirror-like reflections off of the shiny black paint of an Oldsmobile from the 1950’s. The car seemed more real than real. And yet, it appeared unreal, so perfect I wouldn’t dare touch it. I’d rather admire such a vintage vehicle from afar than sit in it.

The song for autumn was Sinatra’s song, It Was A Very Good Year: “But now the days are short, I’m in the autumn of the year, and now I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs from the brim to the dregs, it poured sweet and clear. It was a very good . . .”

One day in the late 1980’s, I went to the World Trade Center for lunch. It was a crisp and clear autumn day. Just before entering the restaurant, Windows on the World, I saw an exhibit of what was called Neo-Dutch Realism. These paintings gave rise to a bittersweet feeling. A beautiful scene in nature would be juxtaposed with man-made structures in varying states of disarray and decay. In the first painting, I saw a beautiful field rimmed by a green forest. There, amid all of nature’s splendor, stood a tall metal tower topped by a rusty oil tank. In another painting, a lovely landscape bordered an old-abandoned-white-clapboard cottage. Its paint was blistered and stained by rust; its windows were broken and its shutters, crooked.

I was surprised to feel an affection for the imperfection being depicted. For some unknown reason, I found the imperfections endearing. Endearing imperfections? How can imperfections be endearing? Perhaps, it’s because the state of loving unconditionally is so wonderful. Each painting offered the opportunity to love both beauty and blight. The Japanese have a term for this appreciation of the beauty of the imperfect and the impermanent, the modest and the humble—even the decayed. They call it wabi-sabi.

Instead of those perfect apples and pears of Cézanne, there was a plump yellow pear with the blight of brown spots. This art embraced the eternal cycle of nature dying and replenishing herself, and the ephemeral of the man-made. There is something so satisfying about loving what’s before our very eyes—flaws and all.

As the winter of my soul has just begun, any style of painting that embraces life’s imperfections continues to capture my imagination. Since snow embraces and transforms into pristine perfection all it falls upon, I include paintings of the lovely snowscapes of winter, especially those of the New England countryside. As for song, I find the Christmas classics previously mentioned along with Oh Holy Night . . . the stars are shining brightly . . . and other carols that celebrate the birthday of the earthly embodiment of unconditional love. After all, it was His ability to see the perfection hidden in the imperfections that made the lame walk and the blind see.

• Today, consider what marks and defines the different phases of your life. What music, interests, and activities express the essence of the changes you have been through?