I know the calendar says April. I've seen daffodils and forsythia, robins and cardinals. There is even a magnolia tree in blossom down the street. But for some reason I cannot get over being cold clear through to the bone. The trees haven't heard the news of Spring yet, and although some are struggling to put forth a leaf bud here and there, the overall impression I'm getting is November. Now this could be related to what's going on around here. No one is in a particularly cheery mood and we're all bracing for worse yet to come. There is more to this, though.
Just as November is known for its lack of light and leaves and general grace, it is a dreary and depressing month because we know what's coming. Maybe that's what this is. We know what is coming too, and it's not Christmas. In fact there is a feeling of mourning in the air, whether we have lost anyone or not. It's a mourning for normality. It's a mourning for habits and familiarity. It's a mourning for the luxury of being able to take everything we have for granted. OK, the weather has been windy and cold and damp, which isn't helping much either. I suppose the cold has kept some people at home who would normally be out there standing less than the advised six feet apart, so that's good at least. I don't enjoy walking in this weather, although I've been forcing myself to do it. To be honest, Himself has been more or less forcing me to do it for my own good. I appreciate it but don't enjoy it. It's too weird out there. It's too quiet.
As we "hibernate" to a degree in November, so we are "hibernating" now, each of us in our little lair, withdrawn and quiet and eating too much in preparation for the long stretch ahead. I don't know what the bears eat, but for me it's usually cookies or chocolates and that will show up soon, and I don't care much about it at the moment. We need comfort food, but Sara Lee doesn't make whatever it is that will make me feel cozy again. No macaroni and cheese, or beef stew, or tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich is going to make me unclench my jaw or loosen my shoulders.
The only warmth I'm feeling lately comes from talking to people I have too long neglected. I find myself picking up the telephone more often instead of sending e-mails. I want to hear the voices of the people who know me, who care about me, who worry about me. And I want them to hear my voice, too. A friend of mine who was deported to China through no fault of his own, sent me a few masks to wear to the grocery store. He is more worried about me than he is his own situation. That's pretty heart warming stuff. The girlfriend he was forced to leave behind drove half an hour to leave them on my front step and then drove away. There are many stories of kindness out there.
I need to warm my chapped-from-too-much-washing hands over the embers of those acts of kindness. That might warm the chill in the center of my soul and make a crocus pop through the hard soil of my fear.
Just as November is known for its lack of light and leaves and general grace, it is a dreary and depressing month because we know what's coming. Maybe that's what this is. We know what is coming too, and it's not Christmas. In fact there is a feeling of mourning in the air, whether we have lost anyone or not. It's a mourning for normality. It's a mourning for habits and familiarity. It's a mourning for the luxury of being able to take everything we have for granted. OK, the weather has been windy and cold and damp, which isn't helping much either. I suppose the cold has kept some people at home who would normally be out there standing less than the advised six feet apart, so that's good at least. I don't enjoy walking in this weather, although I've been forcing myself to do it. To be honest, Himself has been more or less forcing me to do it for my own good. I appreciate it but don't enjoy it. It's too weird out there. It's too quiet.
As we "hibernate" to a degree in November, so we are "hibernating" now, each of us in our little lair, withdrawn and quiet and eating too much in preparation for the long stretch ahead. I don't know what the bears eat, but for me it's usually cookies or chocolates and that will show up soon, and I don't care much about it at the moment. We need comfort food, but Sara Lee doesn't make whatever it is that will make me feel cozy again. No macaroni and cheese, or beef stew, or tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich is going to make me unclench my jaw or loosen my shoulders.
The only warmth I'm feeling lately comes from talking to people I have too long neglected. I find myself picking up the telephone more often instead of sending e-mails. I want to hear the voices of the people who know me, who care about me, who worry about me. And I want them to hear my voice, too. A friend of mine who was deported to China through no fault of his own, sent me a few masks to wear to the grocery store. He is more worried about me than he is his own situation. That's pretty heart warming stuff. The girlfriend he was forced to leave behind drove half an hour to leave them on my front step and then drove away. There are many stories of kindness out there.
I need to warm my chapped-from-too-much-washing hands over the embers of those acts of kindness. That might warm the chill in the center of my soul and make a crocus pop through the hard soil of my fear.
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