The Affray of Seasons and Reason

Near midnight, last night, the snow had begun to fall.

Last week the temperature reached seventy degrees and my mother again lamented the lack of any snow this winter, espousing the country-wisdom theorem that biting cold temperatures and snow enough to cover the landscape, putting briefly on pause the world are necessary to kill the germs and viral maladies passing among the population. I asked how then such diseases were put to rest in tropical climates and Florida, and my mother answered me with her oft-repeated phrase of frustration; “Oh Charlie.”

That explains everything.

But now, one week away from the official start of spring, comes Stella.

(I apologize but it is impossible for me to mention this storm without bellowing in my Streetcar-Stanley imitation: Stellllllaaaaah! There. That’s out of the way.)

By 4:30 this morning, there was a covering, but nothing like the foot predicted.

While all through the winter months, winter itself has encroached upon the demeanor of spring, usurping its warmth and temperatures until, in the last few weeks, there have been bloomings and buddings and blossomings, flora tricked by winter’s usurpation of spring’s expressions into early flower, a trust and guilelessness which has resulted in their ruin; verdure will not, this season, express its fullest efflorescence having been deceived — gulled and hoodwinked — by the sneaky, delusory cunning of this imposturous winter.

Though the snow is killing what remains of the early blossomings, its untouched beauty before sunrise, here in the court outside my patio door, is quite glorious.

Fitting, this, that the seasons, nature itself, should commit such fraud and flimflam upon us, a reflection of the phony quack elected in November who now swindles a nation with his lies and sleights-of-hand, a venomous malignancy of fascistic bigotry and class-warfare masquerading as populism.

Winter is trying to kill spring; that group of buffoons who stole the White House are trying to kill freedom.

And see, here, this, the powerful, aged, determined tree casts its tall shadow, its reaching to the sky tattooing the murderous snow-blanket, promising its eventual victory. It, like freedom and equality and Love and Light, will triumph once the snow has melted away, its killing cold becoming ground water to assuage the near-drought. Things work out. Always.

But, here, now, I’ve faith. Buds have blossomed too early before, the blooms then frozen to rot. But, sooner rather than later, these buds will recover and burst into flower again. Freedom — in the shape of equality and respect for all people, regardless of their categorization and label — cannot be permanently stopped from flourishing.

The seasons and reason may seem to be at war with one another right now; we may — many, if not all of us — feel torn, bruised by the clash of goodness and truth with the foul stink of malicious prejudices and repugnant manifestations of fear into odious action and hateful policy, but we are stronger and more resilient than this temporary carnage and chill of despair being sold as patriotism and return to greatness.

Our shadows are taller and longer, our natural drive to re-leaf and blossom again, to follow the dictates of the seasons, to survive these sorts of freezes and blights and in doing so grow stronger, these are all more powerful than the temporary despair of a storm — a storm which, it should be remembered, is also part of the cycle.

Perhaps my mother’s theorem is wiser than I gave credit for. This storm, this benumbing cold and its temporary glaciating effect offers a chance to rest a moment, re-think, re-new — yes, RE-new — while its freezing blast does away with some of the pestilential, pernicious germs and viral disorders which have been infecting us, passing among us, robbing us of the energy required to reach like the trees for the heavens.

So, I am here, quietly, hibernating and holding myself tightly, protecting my center, Re-Newing me, unafraid of a little blizzard bloviating its way through the world, making a last grasp at holding on to its season, pretending it can defeat spring.

Now Stella has started to bluster and swagger, boasting and full of bombast; but still, we know, spring will come, Stella. Have your moment, but we will bloom again.

Ha. Silly snow, silly storm, you are only feeding us for when we burst forth in all our glory again; taller, stronger, more gloriously aflame, ablaze, aglow with the Love and Light that is the truth of nature.

Dear ones; I am here.

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