When I lived in Seattle, I stood at a specific bus stop at about the same time on the same day nearly every week for three years.

Across the street from this bus stop was a large tree that grew in someone’s backyard. I looked at that tree every time I was waiting for a bus at that stop.

This tree was a deciduous tree and, thus, sported luscious, shiny leaves of green during the summer. Come autumn, the leaves adopted shades of yellow and brown before falling off of the limbs and collecting in the gutter. In the winter, the tree stood bare, revealing the imperfections of its bark and the abandoned birds’ nests amongst the branches. When spring arrived, tiny buds appeared along those same limbs and, soon, little leaves sprouted from the tree.

I marvelled at how the tree seemed to change so little from day to day—sometimes even week to week—though I was able to easily recall, as I do now, how the tree’s appearance dramatically changed through its seasonal cycle.

This morning, I ran around Central Park (along with a few thousand other runners; they were racing, I was not). Since moving to New York in June, I have had the good fortune of running the six-mile loop around Central Park most weekends. Central Park now serves the same function as that tree did in Seattle.

It snowed last night and there were still patches of snow throughout the park this morning. The trees, which were bursting with color just a few weeks ago, are now mostly bare (and I now see buildings and structures that were previously obscured). The lake is usually partially frozen over and a large mound of snow (courtesy the zamboni—I wasn’t trying to include “zamboni” in the entry today) is piled outside of the pool-now-turned-skating rink. A make-shift fence comprised of non-descript wooden slats has appeared on the west side of the park; the road on that side has also been freshly paved. The vendors selling ice cream and pretzels are fewer in number and the crowds of people who mobbed the Great Lawn in the heat of the summer and during the balmy September evenings are no longer there.

I resented the six-mile loop during the muggy days of summer, when the air felt like wet cotton and my sweat felt like warm, viscous gel against my skin. I was astonished with the persistence and severity of the summer storms, when the rain splattered against the warm asphalt before pooling into small rivers that slipped down the road and sloshed against my shoes. I enjoyed the relative solitude of the summer evenings, when the air had cooled down some and the glittering city lights and park trees provided a gorgeous backdrop for the hot air balloons floating out of the park. The crisp air of fall felt refreshing against my skin as I exchanged the running shorts for running pants. The days began to shrink in length and instead of tank tops and flip flops, people in the park began to wear jeans and scarves. More people began to hop into the bicycle taxis and the dozens of lanterns at The Boathouse glowed earlier in the evening. The clip-clopping of the horses drawing their handsome carriages also appeared earlier around Columbus Circle.

And, now, snow. With this cold weather comes running tights, beanies, and gloves. Central Park, I am sure, looks lovely underneath a blanket of white. I hope I am not the only one who is hoping for “sufficient” snow this winter.

Sometimes, we need the seasons to remind us how quickly time can pass and that we should make the most of what we have—which is this moment right now.