The hail on the metal roof of the porch is like timpani, like a standing ovation in an opera hall, like encore! The thunder; a low growl, a warning beast, letting you know it is not to be trifled with. The lightening is not the part of the storm that concerns your dog, but when a particularly bright flash of it lights up the room, he casts a glance over his shoulder toward the source, then looks to you for explanation. Getting none, he settles back into his nest of blankets and sighs.
He is uneasy, but not you. This winter has been long and dark, and the early spring storm system rolling through has reminded you that summer is coming, that it isn’t so very far away now, summer, with its epic storms and blazing sunlight and brilliant color. You miss it, now that you remember — you want it back again though you know full well you will be longing for a break in the heat come August, desperate for an end to mosquito season, to wasps in the garden season, to can’t-sleep-without-the-A/C-blasting season. You don’t care. You are dreaming of summer now.
But— spring has only just gotten started.
Your favorite part of any season used to be the beginning. Now, you understand that the end of one holds its own singular allure. You think it may be in the indulgence of having had more than your fill of a thing, and wanting— pining— reaching for the next. In the churn and restlessness of the brink.
You know it is good to be present in whatever season in which you find yourself. Everything in your modern life tries to take you out of presence, to pull you back into the past, and more often, to propel you toward the future. You try to be where and when you are; to savor the season that you are in.
You savor it, you do, and then you gorge yourself on it. And then, you savor the longing for the next one. Your favorite part of a season is still the beginning, but now that you are older, you know how to love the yearning at the end.
When you were young, feelings like pining and waiting were torment. Now, you can appreciate their exquisite and cyclical nature. Now, you know how to end a season: with a sated love for all the weather and ferment and rebirth it has wrought, and a heady impatience for what is up around the bend.
Tomorrow, the soil will be muddy with earthworms and grubs for the trilling birds. For now, you listen to the cold thunder, dreaming of heat and plenty.
This is so beautifully written, Stephanie! You have a poet's heart!
Beautiful.
100% resonate with this: "When you were young, feelings like pining and waiting were torment. Now, you can appreciate their exquisite and cyclical nature."