As winter wears on, I can’t help but think of summer … spring … green growing things … warmth … flowers … fresh tomatoes from the vine … blueberries fresh off the bush … lily of the valley, just outside my bedroom window, mixed in among the violets …
This is the longest time of year … that span between the holidays and spring. It’s an endless stretch of stark grays and browns … interspersed with patches of cold, frigid white. Absent are the reds, golds, blues and greens of spring and summer … the pristine whites of blackberry blossoms, the evocative red of tiny rosebuds, unfurling their virginal petals to absorb their first taste of sunlight.
This is the long cold empy, when life seems to be on hold, waiting for the sun, warmth and green to make itself felt again - signaling an end to the long bleak, desolate, gray interval.
But what would daisies and apple blossoms be, if I could touch them whenever I felt a need?
What would the feeling of sunlight on my chilled back be, if I never felt the chill of white winter-death running its cold, blue finger along my spine?
What would the smell of lilacs be … if it permeated my winter doldrums … ?
Each of those is special, sought after, dreamed of, hoped for, yearned for … because of their very absense. If they were always there … then in my humanity, I would take them for granted. How sad. Why is it that we only appreciate something once it’s gone?
“Don’t it always seem to go,
That you don’t know what you’ve got
‘Til it’s gone …
They paved paradise,
And put up a parking lot.”
Joni Mitchell
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