Longing for Spring

Rem, Tam and I alone occupied the park this morning, savoring the unexpected warmer temperatures. Suggestive, cold breezes wafted through the park, warning of more approaching cold and forced us to focus on the present. Tam sat on her haunches at the edge of the playground area, her ears perked, and surveyed the dull landscape before her with optimism. This posture is beautiful in a Brittany so full of expectant and harnessed energy waiting to be released. Alert though she patiently stood, no bird or squirrel moved over the deserted ground or through the bare trees to instigate a chase.

Rem's repetitive play as a man on a Mardi Gras float from atop the playground apparatus throwing imaginary beads interested neither me nor the dog. I did, however, raise my arms occasionally as a parade spectator in a half-hearted effort to share in Rem's play. We leisurely followed the creek bed, an endless restoration project due to the persistent winter weather and felt disappointed at the abandoned appearance of all but the creek bed itself. Erosion mats hold the ground at bay and although difficult to circumnavigate, they lead to the newly formed pools in the creek as it meanders through the park.

The empty park only momentarily lifted my spirits and by the time we walked home, the temperatures had dropped even more. The yard presented itself as long suffering and tired. The lyriope lining the walks and empty beds retained the burdened appearance of bearing the weight of snow. Scattered, leafless stands of trees towered over muddy wallows that remained hardened most of the day. Even the trellis displayed a pitiful scene of yellowing jasmine that acted as a sieve to melting snow, dripping icy water droplets onto the walkway below. Tight- fisted rhododendron leaves, in an exhibit of exasperation at the continued frigid temperatures, fade the memories of once lush bushes that filled the yard. Everything looks heavy and misshapened from the continuous pressure of a winter landscape that loses its charm with each new snowfall.

Some years ago I acquired the habit of devouring and scribbling in well worn copies of nineteenth century English novels during my bouts of winter blues. I have been particularly ravenous this year in an attempt to abate an acute case of cabin fever. The restorative powers that I sought have actually had the reverse affect upon me. Winters seem more bearable from within remote, mysterious manor houses and across windswept moors than from my humble hamlet and surroundings. Immersion in the bleak plight of those destined to lives spent in poorhouses or debtor's prisons serves only to enhance the desolate view from the window where I sit reading. Even though the diverse, well-depicted Middlemarchers resemble the personalities of many of my current acquaintances, (I know my share of Bulstrodes and Causabons, a Fred Vincy or two). I am not rewarded with the benefits of such interesting story lines as befell the people of nineteenth century England.

I turn to my old friends who have patiently pushed me through my many phases over the last twenty-five years or so but they are not as true to me as I am to them. The Bronte's, Dickens, Eliot and Austen deviously toy with my waning spirit. Devoutly, I read page after page, longing for the next revelation, a deeper insight into each complex persona, a new understanding of the human condition - while mine suffers. The hours spent each afternoon in the car waiting for children does not afford the same environment for self reflection or growth as a cozy room of thinking yet idle characters happy for lengthy conversations over tea or after dinner (before the dancing, of course). My kinsfolk completely abandon me during the gloomy months of winter so there is no hope of filling the house with family and except for the occasional dinner with friends (that aren't postponed because of impending snow) my evenings are spent as an outsider envious of the gatherings and relationships that unfold in pages. Even Craig, so often willing to humor me, hasn't attempted to profess his love in a hand written letter carefully sealed with wax though I must certainly pierce his soul on occasion. The evenings turn to night and still I read fervently until I am enveloped in a melancholy that only sleep can break.

An enlivened patch of pansies, the sudden appearance of daffodils, the purple fuzz of the redbud trees will release me from my torment. Warm afternoons will raise my yard from its desolate winter's sleep and its unkempt beauty will once again become a haven for me and the center of activity for my family. A day or two that begs me to linger in the direct, warm rays of a revived sun and the gradual return to contemporary literature by way of Henry James (both a nineteenth and twentieth century writer, both British and American) and I will be restored.