The seasons change, and I get older. Each time I repeat the same cycle. Summer comes, and I am restless and wanting an adventure. Fall begins and I want to smoke and write poetry. Winter arrives and I long for a fireplace, a good book and better scotch. But with spring, I never quite know what to do with myself.
I once thought when I got old enough I would be cured of my childhood love of rain. Someday, if I was somewhere with more rain, I would get tired of it. Growing up in Billings, on the edge of a desert of plains, rain came infrequently and was gone before you could jump in a puddle. But every spring I still cherish the rain.
Spring brings hope but it also brings pressure. Everything I put off because of the weather, or S.A.D. becomes a mandate for me. Every workout goal, writing project and weird new food I want to try, is suddenly looming in front of me like an expectant puppy.
I go through the same cycle of the seasons anywhere but when I was in Missoula I loved the spring. The gloom of fall and winter, while dramatic and good for writing, did wear on me. But a Missoula spring was something to behold. The uncertainty I sometimes feel in the spring was only hope back then. It was only the bright, wet and mountainous town of creativity I sometimes loved, sometimes loathed.
This time of year confuses me. But I enjoy the bewilderment.
Changing with the seasons,