from A Year of Morning Thanks
"I'm 71-years-old and I've never seen spring come this late," or so said a man in a news article I read this morning. He's talking about Iowa. "When it starts getting into mid-March and April, then things should change fast, but not this year," he said. Blasted cold sunk its teeth into us like a frosty pit bull.
A friend of mine who grows champion irises said he was, at least two weeks behind. "At least," he told me.
Last weekend, we had three days of horribly annoying snow squalls that didn't leave a whole lot behind but made life miserable with low temps and insane winds. But today, the story is, we're finally going to get the glorious seventies, the very first day of real warmth, in many ways the first day of spring. There's cause for rejoicing--if it wasn't almost summer. Next week, it'll probably snow again. Stranger things can happen out here.
I'm wondering if South Sea Islanders, in their glorious consistent balmyness, experience less emotional amplitude. Do their moods spike and flatten in a heartbeat? I wonder if, given the gorgeous climate, they are more capable than I am of living at even keel, just steady as she goes.
Maybe that's why so many people move south. I wish I could live with less stress. I wish my problems were simply created by the fluctuating weather because then I could just begin to invest in June, which isn’t all that far away.
The truth is, a tardy spring and April snow aren't my problems. My burden is being pulled hither and yon by things I have to do, good things, too, important things, for which I’m thankful—and busy, and anxious, and, I suppose, moody, a roller coaster.
Really, I wouldn't doubt that a lot of really great blessings begin their lives as burdens. I should be thankful for the madness which is my life—yeah, I should.