I feel like I’ve been inside my whole life, I suppose that’s what the month of February’s for, March too. After spending a week unable to swallow without wincing or whinging the first few moments without pain are golden. Surely tea has never been so sweet to any but the man with a sore throat in his rear view.
Is that the same thing with winter? I have a difficult time accepting that the seasons primary purpose is to make spring and summer more beautiful. Even the idea that the cold and the pain deepens the valley of our experience, allowing us to fill with more beauty and more pleasure, feels wrong somehow.
Winter, I think, serves a deeper, broader purpose. What that is, I have no idea. While I’ve been sick this last week, and more sick this winter than most I can recall, I’ve also been out in the forest and working my chainsaw and doing projects far more than any winter past. My new context has given me new things to do, but I was headed in this direction even when I lived in a city.
All that being said,
now that it’s February I can complain about winter and pronounce my longing for summer.
Is that the same thing with winter? I have a difficult time accepting that the seasons primary purpose is to make spring and summer more beautiful. Even the idea that the cold and the pain deepens the valley of our experience, allowing us to fill with more beauty and more pleasure, feels wrong somehow.
Winter, I think, serves a deeper, broader purpose. What that is, I have no idea. While I’ve been sick this last week, and more sick this winter than most I can recall, I’ve also been out in the forest and working my chainsaw and doing projects far more than any winter past. My new context has given me new things to do, but I was headed in this direction even when I lived in a city.
All that being said,
now that it’s February I can complain about winter and pronounce my longing for summer.