A Streetcar Named Spring

Winter and me always begin our romance with a bang, probably helped greatly by the joy of the holidays. The change in scenery, the very starkness is such a pleasant change to the clutter of all those fallen leaves. Ice and snow are merely sparkle. Who can resist that? Yes indeedy, I'm smitten every December.

My passion is rather short-lived. You know how that tall, dark and brooding man can only capture your attention for so long? Then you realize that there is nothing behind that pretty facade. In fact, its akin to realizing your lover isn't Rhett Butler, but instead, Stanley Kowalksi.

Just like Stella, I'm stuck with this harsh and moody man. But unlike Stella, I don't love him. By end of January, there is no sparkle just lifeless ice and I can't wait to ditch him. I'm just marking time while he blusters about my life. Some days, while I know on an intellectual level that winter is going to end, emotionally, I don't always feel it.

It is a challenge not to give into the despair. Towards the end of this year's particular siege, I found myself outdoors nearly every day, searching for signs that spring will come once again. Seeing buds start to form followed by spikes of green felt like a miracle. Those first crocus flowers with their bursts of purple and yellow make me want to sink to my knees and give thanks as I know Stanley is packing his bags now. He may have a final outburst just to prove he can, but he's leaving.

Lately, I've been thinking about people who lived in a time before science and technology. Winter wasn't passed wearing Gortex lined everything. No warm homes filled with a variety of fresh food from the grocery store down the street. There were no books to read let alone museums, theaters or even television in which to help pass the time.

To them, knowing spring would eventually arrive wasn't an understanding of science, but an act of faith.