And then it rains

Seasons are more than just changes of scenery and temperature for me and many others like me.  They operate an emotional calendar as well.  This morning I woke up and said “Why not run regardless of whether it’s raining?”  Well it didn’t take me long to answer that.  I’m out of shape anyway.  I’ve not been running or swimming or dancercising or even walking to the top of the hill everyday whether it rains or not.  It’s been winter and now it is raining.  I’ve neglected my dog’s training and so the run becomes a wrestling match whether it rains or not.  I know it’s not really his fault.  But the thought of facing the struggle and the rain leaves me snuggled under my cover or cuddling with a throw in one of those big chairs I made for the sunroom, waiting for the dawn instead of out welcoming the day with a brisk walk or run up and down the surrounding hillsides.

This grey sky, high-low temperature, foggy dawn, housebound time of year always has the same effect on me.  I'm like Charlie Brown thinking I'll kick that ball to the moon and landing on my back or face in the mud. I was reading through some other posts from this time of year and I found evidence that it’s not a new struggle brought on by the advance of years.  The short stories are full of melancholy and unnamed dissatisfaction. The poems are generally darker and more introspective in nature.  Even my journaling suffers the same malady.  And as I look at it, I find that my quiet times frequently struggle for meaning and often end up with unresolved issues of spirit and heart.  I do understand why, but I can’t force change to happen.

I know God answers the prayers of his people.  The other day as I listened to what should have been a soothing rhythm on my sunroom roof with a bit of impatient dissatisfaction, I thought “He’s giving me the rain I asked for last fall –and last summer and the fall before, just in case I felt slighted.”  Yes, of course I’m joking.  God gives good gifts and he gives them when we need them.  I’m confident of that.  But there's little comfort when people keep saying “We’ll be wishing for this come summer.”  I understand that this is the time for the ground water to be resupplied for the hotter, dryer days to come, when the tree roots get the bulk of what’s down there and the watering schedule is barely enough to keep the flowers fresh.  It’s all part of the cycle of life. 

Of course, for it to fill the aquifer, it must first make slop out of my yard and hillside.  It must turn the newly tilled garden into a mud pit that is impossible to plant until the sun of May dries it out.  So I start the seeds inside knowing that the poor plants will be behind when the time comes.  And I pay crazy prices for established plants to fill in the gaps in mid to late May.

I must admit that on the days when I do get up the hill, the views are stunning.  Fruit trees and vines have bloomed, set on and are developing fruit.  Iris are abundant as are the periwinkle and a few left overs from the wisteria.  Dianthus and sweetpeas have exploded into bloom after struggling to maintain foliage and two or three small blossoms through the winter.  The dew berries are almost like snow and quickly moving into forbidden territory.  The four o’clocks are a long ways from blooms, but their foliage is developing nicely.  Spikey leaves announce the coming of sprays of gladiola and sweet calla lilies.  The later varieties of azalea are showing off their spring outfits and gerbera daisies are uncurling.  The passion flower is sending vines up into the mass of other vines already on the pergola. 

The tree frogs scream their invitations to courtship back and forth.  A large variety of birds chase each other through sky, bushes and trees as part that other cycle of life.  Everything is fresher, louder, clearer, more aromatic in the spring.  Snakes, skinks and a variety of other things that slither and scoot surprise me in the few efforts I can make while the skies allow.

The pool is uncovered to the joy of a crowd of insects –well until I add the chemicals that render them lifeless to be sucked off the water and into oblivion.  The softness of the pool lights and the solar lamps beckon me to come sit in the fresh evening to listen to the night song I’ve been denied since last fall.  I consider building a small fire and breaking out the deck cooking supplies.  I finally give in to the idea all this sweetness and then it starts to rain.

I feel tricked, thwarted, stymied, unfulfilled.  I know the time is coming for nights on the deck and around the pool.  Laughter and soft talks, splashing and barbecues are waiting in the wings of time.  Swimming laps at dusk, soft towels, cold drinks with warm fires await.  Breakfast in the early morning breeze with the scent of flowers and the soft noises of life will undoubtedly happen, but not tomorrow; tomorrow and the next day it’s going to rain.  Sigh.