Midwinter Musings

Here in the great shadow of the Black Mountains, we’ve had several cold days with the sun on hiatus, no doubt, parked somewhere over paper umbrella drinks and gently lapping sea waves. I hold a cup of raspberry hot cocoa, its warmth hearkening to languorous, steamy days of summers past—days full of adolescent longings and lush leafy gardens full of sweet herbs, riotous flowers, and beckoning strawberries.

Oh July, with your fanciful tomfoolery! You gift our souls with resplendent emerald feasts for the eye, carrying us back to the sweet succulence of olden days ripe once more through crisp recall. Still ponds beckon our inner child to throw in a line and wait with unadulterated patience for a bite from a fish big enough only to make our hearts jump before nudging the little guy back into his bed. After all, we were not about catching a meal but a magical moment.

Remember those lazy days of yore when time stretched out like the Silly Putty we'd use to copy the Sunday funny papers. And those fields of lush green clover! We'd roll down hills of them and make verdant flower halos to crown our wild, tangled mops. And, oh, the games we would play back and forth across the grass and chickweed in a time when time stood still so we could delay growing up just a tad longer. But when the street lights popped on, the clock started again and we had thirty seconds or so to make it inside the front door before a parent could shake a scolding finger at us. Yet we had our jars of lightning bugs to carry the luminescence of another sunny, sapphire sky day deep into our dreams. What did we care if our mothers snuck in later to let the fireflies escape back within their own private heaven?

I’ve drained the last of the cocoa as the shadows begin to creep up the lawn. There’s chili to make for warding off the cold fingers of another day in “Februarius mensis”—Latin for “Month of Purification”. Well, if purification is needed, I’ll happily search for it at the local hot springs where I can continue my musings of midsummer. Beckon me always, Nature, into your wild nooks and crannies where marvelous, revelatory treasures from wide-eyed childhood rise like heady incense from the heaping carcasses of adult woes and civilities.