April — The Art of Becoming
Day 117 — 27 April
Everything in Its Season
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” “He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in their hearts, except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1, 11 (NKJV)
…and perhaps the deepest wisdom the art of becoming can teach you, after twenty-seven days of building and refining and applying, is the wisdom of recognising that you were never meant to practise every dimension of this art simultaneously, that the settled identity and the courageous initiative and the humble descent and the patient observation and the tender empathy and the careful fluency and the practical service and the honest vulnerability are all genuine capacities you carry, yet the season you are standing in right now is calling for only some of them, and the rest are resting, stored in your hands like seeds awaiting their appointed ground.
The Preacher of Ecclesiastes, whom Jewish tradition identifies as Solomon in his later years, opened his most famous meditation with a declaration that has echoed across three millennia of human experience, and the Hebrew vocabulary he employed reveals a man who had learned, through decades of accomplishment and loss, that the wisest response to life’s complexity is the recognition that every purpose has its own appointed moment and every moment has its own appointed purpose.
The Hebrew noun זְמָן (zeman, meaning “appointed time,” “fixed season,” or “the moment designated for a particular occurrence”) appears in verse 1 alongside חֵפֶץ (chephets, meaning “purpose,” “delight,” “desire,” or “that which one takes pleasure in accomplishing”), and the pairing of these two words creates a framework that governs the entire chapter: every חֵפֶץ (chephets, “purpose”) has its own זְמָן (zeman, “appointed time”), and the wisdom of living well lies in discerning which חֵפֶץ (chephets, “purpose”) belongs to which זְמָן (zeman, “season”) rather than attempting to force every purpose into a single moment.
Then, in verse 11, the Preacher adds a dimension that lifts the entire meditation from pragmatic observation into theological wonder. The Hebrew adjective יָפֶה (yapheh, meaning “beautiful,” “fitting,” “appropriate,” or “exactly right for its context”) tells us that God has made everything יָפֶה (yapheh, “beautiful”) in its עֵת (eth, meaning “time” or “appointed season”), which is to say that the beauty of any given action, any given word, any given act of becoming is inseparable from the season in which it is performed. An act of initiative that is יָפֶה (yapheh, “beautiful”) in March may be premature in January. An act of patience that is יָפֶה (yapheh, “beautiful”) in the waiting season may become passivity if it extends beyond the season that called for it. The beauty is in the fit between the action and the moment, and discerning that fit is the highest expression of the wisdom Ecclesiastes commends.
The Preacher then reveals something even more profound: God has placed עוֹלָם (olam, meaning “eternity,” “perpetuity,” or “the sense of endless duration”) within the human לֵב (lev, meaning “heart,” “mind,” “inner life,” or “the seat of understanding and volition”). This means that every human being carries within them an intuition of something larger than the present moment, a sense that the individual seasons of life are connected to a narrative that stretches beyond what any single season can reveal. You feel the pull of עוֹלָם (olam, “eternity”) every time you sense that the difficulty you are enduring serves a purpose you cannot yet articulate, every time you trust that the seeds you planted in a previous season will bear fruit in a season yet to come, and every time you hold steady through a moment of apparent purposelessness because something deep within your לֵב (lev, “heart”) tells you that the story is still unfolding.
The Farming Year That Teaches Everything
Think of a farming year as a single, unified act of becoming that unfolds across four distinct seasons, each with its own character, its own demands, and its own contribution to the final harvest. In early spring, the farmer ploughs and plants, breaking the ground, depositing the seed, and investing enormous effort in a field that will show nothing visible for weeks. In summer, the farmer tends: watering, weeding, protecting the young crop from pests and weather, performing the unglamorous daily maintenance that the growing season requires. In autumn, the farmer harvests, gathering the fruit of months of invisible labour, filling barns and cellars with the reward that only patience could have secured. And in winter, the farmer rests, allowing the soil to recover, allowing the body to restore, allowing the mind to plan the next year’s planting while the earth lies fallow and the fields stand empty under grey skies.
Each season demands a different posture. The spring farmer who tries to harvest will find nothing to gather. The summer farmer who tries to rest will lose the crop to weeds and drought. The autumn farmer who tries to plant will waste seed on ground that is already occupied. And the winter farmer who refuses to rest will arrive at the next spring exhausted, depleted, and too worn to break the ground that the new season requires.
The art of becoming operates within the same seasonal rhythm, and the wisdom of Ecclesiastes teaches you to discern which season you are standing in rather than attempting to practise every dimension of the art at once. There are seasons in your life when the primary act of becoming is initiative: crossing gaps, starting conversations, entering rooms, making the first move. There are seasons when the primary act is observation: watching, listening, absorbing, learning the landscape before you speak into it. There are seasons when the primary act is emotional entering: sitting with grief, holding space for pain, feeling what the person beside you feels. There are seasons when the primary act is patience: trusting the timeline, honouring the process, believing in the harvest while the field looks empty. And there are seasons when the primary act of becoming is rest: stepping back from active engagement, tending the source, allowing the morning-by-morning discipline of Day 112 to replenish what the previous season’s labour depleted.
The Greek γίνομαι (ginomai, “to become”) that has anchored this entire month carries within it the assumption that becoming is a process that unfolds across time, and the wisdom of seasons teaches you that the process honours its own rhythm rather than conforming to the urgency you might wish to impose upon it. Paul spent years in Arabia before his public ministry began (Galatians 1:17–18). Joseph spent thirteen years between the pit and the palace. Ruth spent an entire harvest season gleaning before her story turned. In every case, the person trusted the זְמָן (zeman, “appointed time”) of the season they were standing in, and the beauty of their becoming, the יָפֶה (yapheh, “fitting beauty”) that Ecclesiastes celebrates, emerged precisely because they allowed each season to do its own work rather than rushing toward a harvest the ground was still preparing.
The Season You Are Standing In
You are standing in a season right now, and that season is calling for something specific from the art of becoming you carry. It may be calling for bold initiative, the courage to cross a gap you have been circling for weeks. It may be calling for quiet patience, the willingness to trust a process that has yet to produce visible results. It may be calling for rest, the humility to acknowledge that the previous season’s labour has brought you to the edge of your resources and the wisest act of becoming available to you right now is the act of allowing yourself to be replenished.
Whatever the season is asking, trust it. The Preacher of Ecclesiastes assures you that God has made everything יָפֶה (yapheh, “beautiful”) in its עֵת (eth, “appointed season”), and that the עוֹלָם (olam, “eternity”) planted within your לֵב (lev, “heart”) connects this present moment to a narrative far larger than any single season can contain. The art of becoming is seasonal, and the person who honours the season they are in, rather than resisting it or rushing past it, discovers a beauty that only timing and trust can produce.
Declaration
I honour the season I am standing in, and I trust that the art of becoming unfolds across a rhythm I respect rather than resist. I carry every dimension of the art within me, yet I exercise the wisdom to discern which dimension this particular זְמָן (zeman, “appointed season”) is calling for, and I give myself fully to that calling with the confidence of a farmer who knows that every season contributes to the harvest. I rest when the season calls for rest. I plant when the season calls for planting. I tend when the season calls for tending. And I harvest when the season calls for gathering. The God who made everything יָפֶה (yapheh, “beautiful”) in its עֵת (eth, “appointed time”) is the same God who placed עוֹלָם (olam, “eternity”) within my לֵב (lev, “heart”), and I trust His wisdom to connect every season of my becoming into a single, coherent, breathtakingly beautiful story. Today, I embrace the season I am in, and I let it do its work.
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