Hello, Springtime! Hello, March!

Ahhhh.  The end of February.  Last Sunday I took the opportunity to snooze on the couch next to my napping daughter.  Waking, I opened my eyes and gazed out the window on the wholly gray day, with the kind of all-day drizzle where if you were to leave the house you might say, "nah, I don't need an umbrella," and after walking not too far you'd be soaked. The kind of drizzle where, as I looked out the window I thought maybe my eyes were just slow to wake up, but, no - it was indeed raining, as it had been all day.
I hesitate to say this, because I believe everything naturally-created is beautifully perfect in its is-ness (even slugs).  But: Sunday I concluded that February is akin to the PMS of the year's cycle.  Good thing it's a short month.  ;-)

For years I have charted my monthly cycle on my iCalendar.  This is a nice habit not only for the obvious heterosexual keeping-track reasons.  Many a time I have had a noteably emotional day, where nothing seemed to go right and instead felt dramatically wrong, and all I felt like doing was crying.  Sealion might say gently, "could this have anything to do with hormones?" and I would respond vehemently, venomously, "you always think that don't you?!" and to prove he was wrong I'd throw myself on the floor, sob loudly and wipe copious amounts of snot on my shirt sleeve.  Then when he wasn't looking, I would sneak to the computer, check the calendar and : sure enough - this day a month ago I cried uncontrollably too!  As much as it irks me that the chemicals squirting through my body could yank my emotional chain, it is also reassuring: tomorrow I don't have to feel this way. And these feelings aren't heralding some shattering life-altering realization; they're just that: feelings. Floating along the river of my consciousness as I witness.

For eons, as our cave-dwelling ancestors looked out on this stretch of late-Winter gloom, reaching the end of their supply of jerky and bones, they would simply toss another log on the fire, gnaw at some leather, and fall back asleep.  But with the electric-charged life we live nowadays, leftover Valentine candy becomes our only hope to stay the course of half-sanity till the crocuses push through the mud.

And so, as February comes to a close and I ponder the deep ponderings and weighty subjects that have crossed my heart during its stay on the calendar page, I feel a lightness lift my soul up out of its heavy galloshes (and chocolate wrappers): "oh - it was just February!"  ha ha!
Glad *that's* over!

Welcome, March!  So good to see you.