Time is both our great protector and our worst nemesis. It heals and moves us when nothing else will do.
Over a month ago, I naively blogged about how spring was nearly upon us in the Midwest. The four weeks between then and now have flown by and somehow gone excruciatingly slow.
I live where I do because I love the people, the arts and the drama of the seasons. Summer is easygoing and muggy, fall is crisp and colorful, winter is long and horrendous, and spring smells like pure happiness.
But our collective patience is wearing thin and the ever-nice locals are getting noticeably edgy. Snowstorms are usually followed by amiable shrugs, reaches for shovels and boots, and drawls of, “Ya know, it sure looks pretty.” This morning’s snowstorm was barely acknowledged, aside from a slightly crazed look behind my favorite barista’s eyes and a half-baked warning to take it easy on the roads.
And I get it. I feel it, too. I ran an errand after work today and when I got back to my car, it looked like this:
I laughed and took a picture, because it seemed so sad and dirty. Two minutes later, I tried laughing again but I cried instead. My dirty door was iced shut, and I somehow managed to clean the entire side of it with my body as I flailed to the ground trying to get in.
So, my dear time. I honor and love you. I will continue to be patient with you as I take a hot bath and ice my elbows. But just know that we’re all counting on you to do your bidding. Heal the season and please give us a new one soon.