Valentine

Last week the sun struggled to raise the temperature above zero.  The earth slumbered, pulling the white comforter of almost a foot of snow over its head to drown out the howling of the wind.  We worried that Phil would stay in his burrow; refuse to even come out and look for his shadow.  Another Midwestern winter had us all in its grip, only this time it seemed like only Hawaii was avoiding the chill.  We set up a collective whine, pleading for the return of spring.

Today I’m sitting in a pool of sunlight and looking out my window at the front yard’s maple tree.  I can almost see the buds swelling in the warmth.  The forecast is for temperatures to reach almost sixty by mid-week.  Except for the shadowed places and the drifts or accumulated piles, the snow is gone.  Puddles are growing larger by the minute.

I love this annual ritual and can’t imagine living somewhere that the change of seasons isn’t this climatic and climactic shifting, the curtain rising and falling, one act to another, a frantic rearranging of the set.  The symbolism of it has been part of my consciousness as long as I can remember.

Struggle…growth…change…solemnity…jubilation…despair…hopefulness…peace…chaos…rest…exuberance….

The earth continues to remind me that my life is a revolving, evolving change of seasons, but one that stays the same despite the storms, despite the drastic fluctuations, because some things remain constant—sun, rain, hope, love,

you.