If Wishes Were Horses

The Spring yo-yo has gotten under my skin. 

When the daffodils bloomed by the front door, and the purples of crocuses and grape hyacinths were clustering at edges, I was optimistic, delighted, content. Now I'm moody, can't tell if I'm grouchy or worse, unreasonable. The thermostat says the temperature is the same moderate 72 degrees, but I can't get warm. I'm sure it said the same thing last week when I basked in cooler clothing and went on a walk without a sweater. 

This last season especially, I made an agreement to myself to be content with winter while winter was here.  I would not be petty and spoiled and always wish for something that I could not have. I would take the time to feel the wonder and beauty of dusted fir, and snow powdered slopes; pause to take in the contrasts of light and shadow. I would take time to look at the ice cycles and examine closely the first large flakes of each new storm.  The howling wind and drifting snow would foster gratitude as I curled warm and safe in the lamp light to read. I would have extra family time to pop corn and see movies that we were too busy to watch before. We would sing and do puzzles. And we would cut and hang the traditional snow flakes and watch the fire (when we got enough wood dry). Then there would be Christmas and soft colored lights and oranges and hot cocoa. New Years parties and St. Valentine's Day. I promised to relax. Enjoy the season. And I have. I have tried not to lose a single wondrous moment. How truly marvelous it has all been. I have not neglected one or these resolutions. The memories are in a welcome stack, heaped like warm blankets in their wicker basket.  

Spring always comes... How is it the I can still wonder after all the years? 

But, yes, is spite of all the memories we have made, the laughter and the love and the sweetness of the family circle, I am impatient and irritable. I was supposed to be weeding and preparing flower beds, trimming the edges, and raking away old leaves. We were supposed to be finding pussy willows and listening oh so carefully for the song of the first meadow-lark. We were supposed to be holding hands and lifting little ones to see now lambs and wobbly colts, who are now trying to pull grass from under snowy mounds, without us wandering and watching. Yes, the lake ice has nearly all melted, yes the fields are still greening, and sap rising (and falling) in the orchards; but the mushy,cold snow seems to have sucked out the pleasure, and I am again, wishing for something, in spite of myself, that I cannot have.