I’m aware it’s wicked predictable that I’m obsessed with the weather, me hailing from Massachusetts and all (pun intended, always). But still: I don’t get the people who weren’t wasted by this last spate of swampy days; who aren’t deeply relieved by the cooler temperatures of today. When it grows as muggy as it did over the weekend I turn into a dirty, hot, wet towel who simply cannot think–let alone answer emails, be clever at dinner, or, yoiks, don grownup-lady clothes and lipstick. There’s a reason we always talk about the weather, and it’s not that we have nothing else (polite) to discuss. It’s because weather matters even more than we controlling humans care to admit. A cigar may never be a cigar but what we really talk about when we talk about the weather is, in fact, weather.
I woke up glad Pharrell wrote an anthem of freedom and joy. Glad Louis CK performed an amazingly on-point SNL opening monologue last night. Glad Lena Dunham shares her smart voice about growing up and creativity. Glad for the work I do. Glad for the worlds it introduces to me. Glad for the lilies blooming by my bed. Glad for the frittata I made yesterday. Glad for strong coffee with cream. Glad for dear friends. Glad for red wine to share with them. Glad for my sweet-as-pie kitty. Glad—very glad—it’s a new moon today. And glad—very, very glad—to release what no longer works.
So here’s to a reboot. Pick up a shovel. Sow your blessings. Fertilize’em with your shit. And then dig some more. There is joy in turning new spring soil.
The end of winter may be the most melancholy time of year. It’s not melancholy like November, when the last of summer sweet disappears into early darkness. It’s not melancholy like February, when we lose hope that anything will ever be easy again. March’s melancholy is a gentle sadness encircling early spring, when we bask in new light and warmth, and grasp at every precious ray of new sun; when we remember what (and who) is no longer here to share our joy. The losses are necessary, perhaps–the worn-out do not tolerate beginnings–but harsh, like the bright after a long season of shadows.
It reminds me of that wonderful poem by Elizabeth Bishop:
One Art The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
