Spring scrambles my circadian rhythms.
I’m a Minnesotan at heart. Spring should be a time of opening, relaxing, slowing down. It’s relief after months of still, interminable cold. The light is lovely and gentle; warmth quickens the dead landscape, brings color to the white page. Spring is Summer’s herald, promising glorious months thick with lazy lake days and loon calls.
The spring sun promises nothing here; it’s this apologetic diplomat ushering in Summer the Tyrant. It foreshadows months of cruel, glaring sky uncompromised by clouds; even they can’t withstand Summer’s ferocity.
Desert spring is a speeding-up time. A race to beat brutality. It’s hard to feel positive too long in the spring with summer looming just behind. And dammit, feeling not-positive in the springtime goes against the natural order of things.
Spring used to be my waking-up time, time for pent-up creativity to explode out from under deep snowdrifts. Now it's my battening-down time. A bracing-against time. Summer is my time for hiding inside and waiting for the worst to pass, when I used to cram those days full to the hilt. I now dread sunshine and clear skies the way I used to dread dark months without one day above zero degrees.
No wonder I can't get on top of things here; even the seasons flip me upside down.
I’m a Minnesotan at heart. Spring should be a time of opening, relaxing, slowing down. It’s relief after months of still, interminable cold. The light is lovely and gentle; warmth quickens the dead landscape, brings color to the white page. Spring is Summer’s herald, promising glorious months thick with lazy lake days and loon calls.
The spring sun promises nothing here; it’s this apologetic diplomat ushering in Summer the Tyrant. It foreshadows months of cruel, glaring sky uncompromised by clouds; even they can’t withstand Summer’s ferocity.
Desert spring is a speeding-up time. A race to beat brutality. It’s hard to feel positive too long in the spring with summer looming just behind. And dammit, feeling not-positive in the springtime goes against the natural order of things.
Spring used to be my waking-up time, time for pent-up creativity to explode out from under deep snowdrifts. Now it's my battening-down time. A bracing-against time. Summer is my time for hiding inside and waiting for the worst to pass, when I used to cram those days full to the hilt. I now dread sunshine and clear skies the way I used to dread dark months without one day above zero degrees.
No wonder I can't get on top of things here; even the seasons flip me upside down.
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