April, come she will…

In particularly self-centered moments (23 hours of the day, give or take) I like to imagine that March was created just for me – the universe’s annual lesson in patience and flexibility.  March, and its orbital counterpart, September, have always been my least-favorite months, challenging my anticipation of the new season, the new weather.  March does it to me particularly, and year after year I have found myself feeling out of place, trying to hurry through it.

Last Wednesday it was beautiful winter:  it was in the twenties and snowed all day – fluffy, ridiculously fake department store-looking snowflakes that flashed like diamonds as they fell, even as the sun set in the distance.  Two days ago, I sweated as I hunched over the beehive, the sun bright and the temperature pushing toward eighty, the yard smelling of spring mud.  Today, the hive sits under an inch of snow, with more predicted to fall overnight.  Sunday will be in the fifties.

I’ve always felt some strange mental disconnect when faced with such changeability; it goes against my nature, which in many ways is a stubborn, plodding thing – goal in mind, path decided.  One step forward, two steps back (maybe a little spin off to the side and a backflip for good measure) feels like a waste of energy, and all too often I end up stomping my feet, screaming and pointing, insisting that we go this way, at this speed… and frustration builds on frustration, while March saunters along according to its own whim anyway.

This year, I find myself trying to stand less rigidly, and be led.  This is a month of abundant beauty, which I suddenly feel inclined to seek.   Maybe it’s a sign of growing older, or quieter; whatever the cause, today I met the crocuses poking through the snow with less of my usual exasperation, and something more like wonder.