Tuesday, 28 September 2010

The Thawing

Just when you think you can't handle one more minute - one more second of winter - the winds change, bringing the first scent of spring.


We can wear open toed shoes again, go to the beach and get sand in our collective cracks, melted gelato, open our doors and hearts to the warm air.

Like when you're all depressed and someone says to you, "It's always the darkest before the dawn." It's always the coldest before the melt. And this melting is fabulous.

I see buds everywhere, forming and blossoming and blooming. And I think, this has happened every year? Where have I been?

The bare, sad, naked trees.

On closer inspection, they are budding and about to come alive again.

The bottomless pit of sad and morose and gloom in me thinks darkly, like it always does.

"It's only the buds of tomorrow's autumn. The sun won't be here for long."

And the new, improved part of me clouts that old part of me on the head, tells it that yes, that is true.

Which is why we must enjoy the sunshine, right now this very minute.


(I just wrote that whole post, shivering in my pyjamas, out on the back deck at 8.11am in the morning. Dave came out, bemused. "Hon, what are you doing?" I told him I was willing spring on and he laughed and we had a very nice kiss. I'd give it an 8 out of 10.)
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