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Category: seasons

River of Spring

River of Spring

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We had a lot of rain over the weekend, and as I dodged the drops (not always successfully), I thought about the moistness that’s the
beginning, the true origin, of spring — and of all life.
Noticing the swollen buds on the forsythia, a pinch of yellow
here and there. The greening of stems, the smallest actors.
The birds get it before we do. They know the days are
getting longer, the light stronger. They know the river of spring is rising.

I want to enter this river, knowing it will be muddy and
cold. I want to be carried along into true spring. Beyond the pale yellow of
forsythia into the pinks and whites and purples of azalea, dogwood and lilac.
Right now we are on the banks, just dipping our toe into the waters. But soon
we will be riding high.
Frosted Fields

Frosted Fields

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Woke up this morning to whitened grass and blue birds flocking to the feeder, to the black-and-white-striped, red-headed downy woodpecker pecking at the suet block. It’s not walking weather, not yet.

A few more hours so the temperature rises past 19, so my breath won’t blind me. A few hours of mental exercise before the physical.

In the meantime I sit here in the dining alcove, as close to the backyard as I can be and not yet in it, itching to be outside.

Stop Time

Stop Time

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Ah, January. I know there must be something good to say about it. Let’s see …

January is a plunge into icy waters, a dive off the high board. That’s the bracing part of it, the embarking-on-a-new year part of it. 
January can be a brisk incentive, a long and relatively uncluttered month with time to get your teeth cleaned and update the will.

January provides plenty of inside hours for making soup and baking cookies. There’s hot chocolate and reading in bed when the snow is falling. 
But there’s one thing that January does better than any other month. It slows time. It’s the one month that takes forever to finish, that doesn’t seem like it’s over before it’s begun, that helps me catch my breath in this great, whirling craziness that is “midlife.” January stops zenosyne cold in its tracks. 
Two-Hour Delay

Two-Hour Delay

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When I was a kid, you either had school or you did not. There was no in between. By the time I had children, the two-hour delay was well established.

In many ways it makes sense. Icy mornings often moderate, and two hours can make a big difference in the condition of roads and sidewalks. Having just driven to Metro on a day deemed too tricky for an on-time start, I can vouch that the county made the right call today.

But I can remember what a mess it was when the kids were young and school started at 11:05 rather than the (already late) 9:05. I could barely transcribe an interview before they were home again. And there’s something about the moral relativity of a two-hour delay that disheartens me. It’s mushy, especially when employed too often.

Perhaps that’s why I slogged into the office today. It was hard … but it was pure.

(We only got an inch of snow today; the photos is from 2010.) 

The Howling

The Howling

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We’re back to winter here, with a blast of Arctic air that’s sending us down to 10 degrees wind chill tonight. Back to three layers, plus coat, hat, gloves and scarf.

Inside, it’s warm and cozy — as long as I ignore the wind.

Why does the wind howl, anyway? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself this winter.

When wind whips around a building or a tree, it splits up. The sound comes from the two currents rejoining on the other side, according to an article on the website Mental Floss.

Leafy trees absorb more of the vibration than bare ones do, so the howling is louder this time of year.

The explanation makes sense, but doesn’t stop the goosebumps. A howling wind is still a scary sound — even with a scientific explanation.

Auto Pilot

Auto Pilot

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It’s below freezing here with a sky that means business (snow business). Birds flit from feeder to roost, keeping warm, I imagine. That’s what I’d do if I were a bird.

Instead, I sit in a warm room observing my feathered friends, trying to work up the enthusiasm for a morning walk. Will the temperature rise past 32? That might trigger some movement on my part. Otherwise, I may have to sit a while longer, have another cup of tea.
Absent from the blogosphere for two days, I notice that the entry I thought I’d posted on Christmas Eve never published. Because I scheduled it for December 24, though, its time stamp makes it appear as if I published it on that day.
It’s a vote against auto-pilot … but a vote in favor of time travel. About which more will be said … in the future. 
Retreat

Retreat

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As I prepare for a retreat at work, I think of yesterday morning’s drive. I was out early and every branch was coated with snow. The clouds were piled in pinks and purples on the horizon and a big old red sun was peeping up above the trees.

We seldom get so much snow so early, and the timing was perfect. The houses and lawns were decked out with red ribbon and green wreaths, with lights and colors. Never was their purpose clearer: to light our way through these dark days.

But the beauty, that was something else. Roads were icy and gravel crunched beneath my tires. I drove slowly —  but still, I couldn’t keep my eyes straight ahead. I kept looking up, down and around, mesmerized by the scene around me.

The day warmed quickly. An hour later that drive wouldn’t have been the same. But for those few minutes … I was in a retreat of my own.

Dark and Low

Dark and Low

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Winter has come to northern Virginia. We’ve fought it for weeks, one unseasonably warm day after another. But today the clouds are dark and low, and the trees are almost bare. When I look out the window I hear the words and the melody in my head: “All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray. California Dreamin’ on such a winter’s day.”

Why does it come as something of a relief, these clouds, this low sky? As if warmth has outworn its welcome. I love warm days. But there comes a point when they seem outdated. It’s time for days like this, days that invite staying home and being still.

Not an option for me today or for the next few weeks, but the great pause will soon be here, the holidays and year’s end. I don’t want to speed up my life too much — there are exciting moments in between — but I’m looking forward to a little rest.

Autumn Snapshots

Autumn Snapshots

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Fall moves quickly now. Leaves shiver on the branch or drift to the ground, lingering in the ivy, gathering  around the trunks of trees.

The exposed ones lie flat on the wet pavement. Maybe they’re playing dead, thinking that if they don’t move a muscle I won’t see them, will pass them by.

No chance of that.

In from the Cold

In from the Cold

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The ferns came in 10 days ago,  the cactus mid-week, and one big pot of begonias a few nights ago. The plants that bloomed and thrived for almost six months on the deck are now huddled by the fireplace or hogging the light of the two small basement windows.

And it’s good that they are, because over the weekend came a killing frost, a hard freeze that nipped the dogwood leaves left on the tree, shriveling them overnight. The begonias
still standing on Saturday morning took a a graceful bow as the day progressed and by Sunday morning had folded and fallen.

If autumn is a gentle reminder of our own fragility, a hard freeze is mortality’s slap in the face. So, even though I’ve been expecting it, even though it’s overdue, this shift of seasons leaves me vaguely melancholy. No wonder we plan feasts for these dark hours, one day for gratitude, another to celebrate the light and our hope in its return.