A Walker in the Suburbs

Though it’s tempting to write about the weather today, the polar vortex with its subzero windchills, I will avoid that temptation and write about … the end of January.

January, the endless month. Season of long nights, dark mornings and tedious commutes (well, that’s all year, but in winter they’re cold, too).

In January, life slows to a crawl. Days last weeks, and weeks last fortnights. Snow falls and melts. Ice takes its place. The woods trails are too snowy or soaked to amble, so I stay on the streets, follow the safe path.

But today proves that the endless month does in fact have a conclusion. And freed as we almost are of it, I suddenly see its silver lining. It brings hope to those of us who feel life is flying by all too quickly.

In the liturgical calendar, Ordinary Time is when it isn’t Christmas and isn’t Easter. The priest wears simple green vestments. There are no wreaths and no ashes.

It’s also a time of miracles: of water turned to wine; of the blind who see and the lame who walk. Anything but ordinary.

Here at the house, ordinary time began Saturday, when I removed the Christmas wreath and hung up the little basket that serves as a door ornament at less festive times of year.

Ordinary time. Nothing special. But everything wondrous.

I always feel this way when we have a time change, that if it’s this easily manipulated, then what does it mean, anyway? If one day 11  a.m. is at 11 a.m. and the next day it’s at 10 a.m., then why don’t we consider more drastic options?

Could we say today is Friday and be done with the week?  Could we skip right past the midterm elections and the interminable analysis that will follow them?

For that matter, can we move right along to next spring? That would be best of all.

“People like us who believe in physics know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion,” Einstein said.

In these first dark days of Eastern Standard Time, I’m believing more in physics than I ever have before.

At some point in my young life I decided that busyness was a key to happiness. I don’t remember making a conscious decision about this, but I do recall getting involved in one club or class after another. Why not join the choir, take modern dance, continue with piano lessons? Why not become a resident assistant in a dorm the same year I’m learning to be a high school English teacher?

Most of the time I could pull this off. Sometimes I made myself crazy. But life is seldom boring.

I write about this today because it’s one of those busy stretches when the amount of tasks to be completed make me dizzy. Most of these are work-related but there are a few personal ones thrown into the mix.

In fact, I shouldn’t even take the time to write this post. Too late now, though, it’s al… most … done!

(Seascapes can be relaxing when living at warp speed.)