theater ettiquette today. That will have to wait since, this morning, my mind is anywhere but in a stuffy theater that smells of popcorn and farts.
As I navigated the
|A late winter sky|
There was no mistaking it--loamy and fecund (I have waited 35 years to have a reason to use that word!), it gave me a jolt and I sang out the news to a neighbor, walking her dog.
Standing still, both she and the dog sniffed the air. The verdict was spring.
Now, we all know what an oddly warm winter it's been in the northeast, virtually snowless after a freak autumn storm, the temperatures have been unseasonably mild. Yet, with it's wardrobe of grays and browns, the truth cannot be ignored--the season is undeniably winter.
When spring does officially arrive, while it won't be quite the delirious relief it was after last year's 54 inches of snow and relentless cold, it will still be spring. Poets, writers, composers and scientologists* have not been performing creative cartwheels for centuries over spring for nothing.
Spring certainly isn't my favorite season. It's always been too hopeful and heavy with promise for me.
I prefer fall with not only it's brilliant pallette but it's symbolic last hurrah before the decay of winter. But the visceral reminder of the growing season, subconscious memories of my ancient pagan origins as well as the sight of my neighbors unshaven legs as she walked the dog, inspired the stirrings I've experienced at this time of year ever since I was a kid.
No one can predict the weather (and I mean that literally, local weathermen) and the remainder of the month is capable of just about anything. So are March and April, for that matter but with today's whiff of the mysterious and intoxicating season still in the wings, it cannot be denied that my heart feels just a bit lighter.
|Hey! Don't grab me there!|
And, as I glance towards the calendar, I see that it's Groundhog Day, to boot!
I can never remember whether it's six more weeks of winter if he does or doesn't see his shadow (or, more accurately, if the lunatics wearing top hats who haul him out of his hole while he's still sleepy to hold him aloft for the cameras, see his shadow) but all I know is that this morning, I smelled spring...and I liked it.
*I climb that ridiculous mountain every morning to get the paper for the crossword puzzle not for the news. I get my news every morning from College Daybreak.
** Scientologists, as far as I know, have no specific spring ritual. I just thought I'd throw them in there.