February
Mid-winter
has passed and I am looking forward to spring. Peering out my window, the
sameness of the barren trees and browned grasses seems unshakable, as if the
landscape never knew colors and dimensions other than gray, stilted silhouettes
of deciduous trees, denuded but still reaching toward the canopy of azure sky
and the deep, dark blue backdrop of low mountains in the distance. Occasionally,
the greenery of hemlocks, pines and bushes of rhododendron disrupt the scene,
appearing as misplaced. Their green is a permanent mark on the lifeless stand
of trees and bushes, which reminds me of the hope of longer days and shorter
nights. February’s clean, clear air will soon be replaced by the oppressive
haze of summer days, so heavy that they crush my breathing, causing a hacking
cough and stinging eyes. I revel in the milder temperatures of a winter’s day,
warm enough to go to the golf course and try to swing my sticks. My aching back
begs me not to, so I avoid going, fearing that my favorite diversion might
illicit the uncomfortable response I had no more than a week ago. Pain is
powerful reminder of my mortality.
The wasps
are out on my front porch, moving slowly, sensing warmer days and the renewal
of all the flowers and plants they need to feed themselves and their cocooned
prodigy. Mid-winter has granted them a string of days without the threat of
freezing temperatures. Like the wasps, I wonder outside, enjoying the relative
warmth of the winter’s sun. I see the raised garden in the backyard, patiently
waiting for the horse manure that I am composting under a large blue tarp
nearby. I need to turn over the dung pile but my tender back keeps me from
manning the pitchfork. The pitchfork is also longing for the flames of the
brush pile in the front yard. A day of drizzle and some more seasoning of the
laurel branches I cut in the fall to reclaim my driveway, are all that needs to
occur to light the head high pile of brush. February, does not relieve me from
tasks that fill up me to do list.
I draw the
curtains on the window in front of desk, shielding my laptop monitor from the
brightness of the low, southern sun slipping toward another early evening
sunset. The old French clock hanging on my kitchen wall affirms the regularity
of time, gently ticking, as I hack out words to express my consciousness. Much
of February remains with all of its possibilities, challenges and mundane
lapses of time. Birthdays, Valentine’s Day, President’s Day blend together with
so many other days unadorned with significance to make up the shortest month of
the year. I have no idea what this month will bring except for the certainty of
doctor and dentist visits which are now a new “normal” as I age. I, like the
landscape out my window, long for the transformation that Spring will bring. I
am not there yet, but soon the tiny buds of seemingly life-less trees will
swell and burst, clothing the forest with a pale green that has been repressed through
winter’s bleakness. Renewal is life’s way of affirming hope against the back
drop of colorless, staid but steadfast existence.