The Human Experience Encapsulated in a Season

Springtime in New England is nothing if not unpredictable. 

Take this week: Monday, it snowed. Tuesday, sun in the morning, hale in the afternoon. Wednesday, it rained cats and dogs. Thursday, gale force winds. Best to leave the house with an umbrella and sunglasses, knowing you might use neither or both. 

This season used to drive me bananas. Make up your mind already, I'd demand of the weather. A little certainty would be great. 

And, of course, when we want certainty, the one certainty is that things will be uncertain.

But, I'll tell you, I've started to fall in love with this absurd season of ice, sunshine, mud, and storm clouds. Because as many Buddhists, poets, sages have pointed out, as intense as each weather front is, none of it lasts. 

While other seasons serve up long stretches of stable weather, springtime is noisy with change, highs, lows, whiplash turns. It's the human experience encapsulated in a season. The good, the glorious, the painful, the piercing, it all passes. Hard as it can be to believe. 

And when I doubt this, when it seems like something will last forever and a day, I remind myself of springtime. Of the fierce rain that dried into impossibly beautiful blossoms. The blossoms that froze, only to open under the next ray of light. All within hours. 

This season can still drive me bananas. Who doesn't want a little certainty now and again? But I don't fight it as much. And I do love it more. For the guaranteed no guarantees of it. And, like our lives, for the certain wildness of it. 

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