Skim through the pictures if all you want is spring fantasy. The text stands in strict counterpoint to them.
The month of March and the advent of spring are always conflicted times for me. There’s the disconnect of New England weather with the folk traditions passed down from my English family. I’m still waiting for the snowdrops which have been long gone in the lore. Daffodils? About three centimeters of foliage emerging as of today. Let’s not talk about the blooms. The ice has not gone out on the pond, but it is long past safe to walk on. The season cannot be hurried here. Why does this bother me? My feet are rooted in this soil, or maybe I’m just stuck the thick mud that characterizes the season. My head is free to wander, and wonder as I debate whether there is any hope of a return to normal after this regime falls. Should I just leave? Live somewhere the seasons align with the ancient tales? I do not know yet.
We could have more snow this weekend. We could descend further into autocracy at any day.
My family has always been one that relocates. No nation holds sway over us when it turns to hatred and bigotry. We find a better home, and put our support behind an honest leader. Am I too stuck in March’s mud to heed the call?
These photos are from the Spring Bulb Show that took place earlier this month at Smith College. Perhaps I am craving a springtime that only exists under glass.
Tales from the jolly bungalow 