I know how it goes. These soft gray days. Mud and the sense that those bits of buds starting to appear couldn't possibly ever come to anything much. And then? itty bitty BOOM. Spring is on.
Sure, I've seen my first robin, the tips of daffodills and the fragile patches of white snowdrops and violet crocuses -- there's even a flame of forsythia banking the side of the driveway into this building.
And still, I'm not convinced. It's bleak. Kinda chill. The overall feel is like looking into a sink where a white bowl with traces of the morning's gray oatmeal sits waiting to be washed.
Yeah, you can thank me later for that little vision of loveliness.
The fact is, there is so much to enjoy and I do love to saturate myself in tactile pleasures-- but I am also rather enjoying being a pissant and reveling in some seasonal moodiness.
Sometimes-- it just feels good to be moody. (Not for anyone around me, obvs, but I rather like a bout of deep nothingness at the center of my reflections. Does the heart good)
The dogs-- ever my mirrors -- are also in a unusually quiet energy. They got all their shots yesterday and I think they are feeling a bit peaked. When I took them to the farm this morning they jumped down from the back with less of a hop and frolic and more of a schlump and meander.
Gray. Soft. Misty.
I rather like it for the very reason I know it can't stay like this. No doubt sunshine and pink blossoms are in my near future-- high energy and late night bike rides through a city balmy with Spring.
But for now?
Oatmeal and hot coffee. Sticky buns with pecans. Gathering up an armful of books and crawling into bed and pretending to be surprised when you set the books onto the floor so that you can sink into a late afternoon nap.