Reflecting on Dismal Weather

It's been unseasonably cold here in the lovely Alabama. Actually, the cold is entirely within the normal range, but it's a sudden cold snap compared to our previously delightfully mild winter. It warmed briefly this morning and the temperature is already dropping again. Nothing but gray skies, freezing rain, and wet icy wind for the next few days.

I've finally braved the cooler temperature to return to my little study. The smallest room on the far side of the house is often coldest. Even my bright child like decorations, and the warm glow of salt rock lamps couldn't lure me back in. Yesterday the mate brought me a space heater and told me to return to my “room” cause I'm junk at writing or drawing when I'm not in my space for it and I'm useless when I want to be working in my studio but am doing something else for whatever reason. He's the best and I'm very blessed to have a little space to work and keep my all my stuff in stasis.

The dog is half in my little studio giving me a guilty stare that tells us we both know she's not supposed to be in here at all. I'm too happy to have reclaimed my work area to care, so long as she stays away from my work strewn across the room.

I've wanted to talk about Spring, because it's my season and it's coming. But it seems ridiculous now. There are little flashes of green in my grass (perhaps the tips of wild onions?), alerting me to the shift. My allergies are already miserable and nothing is even budding yet. I killed my first house fly at work yesterday. It's waaaay too early for those things to try to over run my coffee station, so I've completed my first round of super intense cleaning seldom looked at areas of the work station. An infinite number of those deep cleans is to come. The rain is here, pattering promises for a wild green spring, though it's too early to do more than tease. I'm planning my Imbolic ritual and anxiously awaiting for a time when it's not darkish around 5.

Still, the wind blows harsh stale and frozen breathes. The ground is brown mud and rusty leaves that look like dead mice litter my lawn. The birds haven't returned to my tree, and the rabbits still don't visit at dusk. Spring might be coming steady and fresh as the dawn, but I'm in the bleak witching hour. There is neither starlight nor the glow of the coming dawn in the sky above. Talking about Spring now seems treacherous at best. I can hope and dream but it wouldn't be the truth. I can't wait until I've a photo of my first wild flower of the year or until I've seen my first robin. I can't wait to plan my seeds—inside to start—and then out back just as soon as they're big enough and the weather will stand it. I want to frolic out in the green-ways with my dog on one side and my fiancee on the other. I want to be back in front of my Local God's temple in the lovely spring, just as we'd first met. I'd like it all so much that if I keep writing and speaking of it, I will completely skip the truth of this moment and dive full speed into a dream Spring that might be perfect in every way, but would be completely untrue. The winter has it's place, as does the waiting.

Even with the space heater blowing, wrapped in blankets, I'm still cold. The dog is all the way in my studio now, and her nose is just barely touching the first of my notebooks. She was careful when she crawled in, but in a moment she will lose focus, nose my things and I'll have to scold her. The sun finished setting as I wrote. It is decidedly dreary out and I can't quite yet speak the name of spring.

It's not spring yet, but it will be. And I have plans, such plans. Now is the time to draft those and re-draft them. To make lists of what I'll need and when I will need it. This is my least favorite time of year, but if I don't use it to sharpen my will, my favorite time will pass in a hazy sheen. Without purpose and meaning.

Winter is a clear cold song. For me it's only long note slowly changing into another note. So subtle and slow if you don't listen, you'll have gone through the whole scale and still have nothing to show. I dream of Spring, but right now my prayers have to be for production. May I plan wisely. May my studies be fruitful and reflections meaningful. May I stay focused and never surrender to pouting or frosty fingers. Though the dark is long and the gray of the day is suffocating, may I surmount the desire to hibernate and apply myself to all the diligence winter offers. Most of all, may I appreciate the current moment and learn to savor the anticipation of Spring enough to now weave an imaginary version that pulls me from truly following they seasons.