It can (almost) always get worse!

You may not remember what it was like four years ago on March 3. I don't, but I've reminders. Here's the view through one of the windows on March 3, 2015, at about 10 am.

some days in early March are like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Does that make you feel better about today, when the sun is shining, although the wind chill is still a noteworthy -15 to -20 ℉? We may get some more weather like that in the picture, but, by month's end, our North Country should look much more like the picture below than the one above.

some days in late March are like this

Photo by J. Harrington

I admit to being even more crabby than usual these days, mostly do to experiencing too much of a good thing. Living somewhere that lacks four seasons would probably make me feel deprived, maybe even severely deprived. I'm trying to accept the bitter (cold) with the sweet (warmth). Having lived as a spoiled middle-class American consumer for quite a few decades, I've mostly grown unaccustomed to now getting my own way, right NOW!. Mother Nature offers innumerable opportunities for me to adjust that perspective. That's one of many reasons I can't afford to stray too far from daily exposure to her. She's just, sometimes, like my labrador cross -- overly enthusiastic. But, what would we do without her. Think about it, please!

Lines Written in Early Spring

By William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 

The human soul that through me ran; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man?

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