No Extravagant Equinox

Relentlessly, silently, new growth and promise creeps from what long appeared dead growth.

• Equinox has come and gone, with only TV meteorologists paying attention.  Spring has arrived, they claim, but it is still cold, and the land remains dormant.  Oh, the sun is brighter, and longer, and there are moments of warm hope.  Birds arrive from the south, chipmunks come out of hibernation, any time now pockets of insects will float on the breeze. 
• But an industrial culture hardly notices.  No flags, bagpipes, or marching bands down city streets.  No wild party celebrations.  We’ve had Mardi Gras and St. Patrick’s day and soon the (anti-festival) of Income Tax Day.  Equinox goes by with less of a whimper than even Summer or Winter solstice.

Sky winter grey, air February cold, but bright hopes shine for those who know where to look.

• In ancient, agricultural and hunter days, there were rituals for the various moons of the seasons, careful calculations of solar events, occasional sacrifices to the various gods.  Especially on the great Northern land masses, it was critical to know when the days reached certain points, for the stars, sun, and moon guided when to plant, when to do other preparation for the climax of natural cycles.
• Spring signs are often confusing.  Crocus, forsythia, greening grass, animal mating ritual all occur to their own needs and rhythms.  Appearances deceive, for water can be warming, ice thinning, earth reawakening with almost no outward sign.  The sun, however, provides a relatively stable fixed point from which farmers and hunters can confidently say _ in one locale _ that this is likely to happen now.
• All that is lost to us.  We have a rich and interesting culture, but it is not oriented to solar, nor even terrestrial, events.  Equinox hardly matches the excitement of basketball tournaments or the start of soccer and baseball training. 

Seagulls rule the dock until the masters of absent vessels try to take it over once more.

• Clocks and watches and automobiles and electricity and indoor malls and electronic entertainment and … well the list is endless … have destroyed our sense of cosmic time.  We live seconds and hours and even days that are artificial.  Seasons have little meaning, for work continues with only scattered interruptions.  Besides, almost anyone can escape to another climate anytime for a weekend or longer.
• I am not complaining.  In the “natural order” of not long ago, I would have probably been dead over thirty years ago, certainly dead ten years ago, and if I had somehow managed to attain my current years I would have been a lonely and pain-racked cripple, unable to do the simplest tasks of the culture.  Today I eat well, I drive, I live a life that is “normal” for these wonderful times.
• Paradoxically, that means I am one of the few folks who have the time and energy to actually enjoy seasons, nature and the old-time celebrations of a sun-based seasonal calendar. 

As A Child

Jumbled relics line the shore, each mysterious and magical, ignored by those over 3.

• Every young grandchild is above average in every way.  My wife and I find that we had largely forgotten our own sons’ toddler years, when we were too busy to think or notice much more than how we never got any sleep.  Now that we babysit a two-and-a-half year old, I am constantly amazed at how rapidly humans become competent.
• We thought we childproofed our house, but we were wrong.  Clever hands and inquisitive mind.  A little while ago he was babbling incoherently, now he easily orders everyone around.  Shaky crawling has given way to study runs, jumps, and spins.  Expensive baby toys are no longer relevant.  Impossible puzzles have become boring exercises. 
• Each day, it seems, another ability manifests.  Cutting, or counting a little higher, or recognizing a complex symbol as a letter, or remembering the pages of a storybook.  Following complicated instructions, knowing how to get older people to do things, finding interesting ways to become interested in the world.  Showing, at times, fierce concentration to obtain mastery.    

A fortunate few manage to hang on to a sense of whimsy as they grow up, some of them produce unexpected sculptures.

• Some people, particularly the lonely, now claim consciousness and intellect for various species.  That all depends on definitions.  Dogs, bred to be both useful and appealing, are the most commonly noted.  There seems to be majesty and intelligence behind those big eyes.
• But compared to what any normal child in their third year can do, the rest of the animal kingdom is pretty dumb.  They cannot respond to a complex choice (“would you rather go outside or sit and watch tv?”),  they cannot manipulate blocks into a building which then then play with as a fire station, they cannot draw a circle on a chalkboard, nor learn to sing along with myriad songs.  Watching a person grow at this age easily demonstrates why humans have become, for better or worse, masters of the planet.  Without really exerting themselves too much.

Ripples and reflections and rocks under shifting light _ a natural abstract artwork for those with eyes to see and just a little more time than most of us have.

• We all ask: why do perfect little angels grow up into something else?  But adults are amazing too _ we just take everything for granted.  We take ourselves for granted.  We are not simply logical machines, we are not just wetware instinctively reacting to the environment.  Truthfully, no person who contemplates existence ever believes they understand the reality of our being.
• This is a cynical time, in which we all consider ourselves worldly-wise.  Each of us is Hamlet _ able to recite “what a piece of work is man …” but finally agreeing with him that each of us is just temporary futile dust, of no consequence to anything.  Our little toddler is certainly “a piece of work,” and hopefully has a long way to dustdom.  In his simple momentary happinesses, I find my own better equilibrium with our miraculous universe. 

Coiled

Often by mid-March andromeda has been blooming a while, but not this year

• When I was working, early March was the easiest time.  New annual projects were in their most productive and least annoying stages.  Commuting was relatively mindless and hassle free.  There was no envy of passing the day at a beach or park.  And increasing daylight promised that vacation and outdoor fun, not to mention late spring holidays, were just over the horizon.
• Now, brilliant sunshine deceives.  I spring  out the door into what I think will be a glorious experience, and am hit in the face and bones with biting raw chill.  I frantically seek signs of emergence of life, and find them (if at all) creeping much too slowly for my taste.  Where are the daffodils?  Where the pussy willows?  Alas, only in the supermarkets, flown in from foreign lands.
• My environment remains coiled.  The force of spring runs in maple sap, bulbs are gathering strength, migratory birds are already on the way north.  Mating antics break out in wildlife everywhere.  Careful examination reveals that indeed tree buds are beginning to swell and color, briars and roses are unwrapping leaves.  But all resembles sprinters prepared for the starting gun, coiled for action, motionless at the moment.

A few clusters of rose leaves brighten my increasingly desperate examinations.

• March is, after all, part of winter.  Ski resorts do landmark business.  People flee to relax on warm beaches in the south of Florida or always-warm Caribbean.  Snowblowers, shovels, and salt must be kept at the ready.  Evening soup is preferred to salad.
• But as equinox approaches, we remember similar daylight back in September, when all was still warm, trees green, and the outdoors lingering in hospitality.  The cruel differences are not quite apparent as I gaze out the window.  
• Fortunately, we humans are also aware of time and cycles.  I know, intellectually at least, that September is a crueler harbinger of a long dark cold time to come.  March is the beginning of new bursting joyful life.  Both take a little while to get fully underway.

Bulbs shoving up in earnest, now leaves must be cleared and fertilizer applied on the thawing flower beds.

• Like those in ancient tribes, I find it elegantly easy to anthropomorphize nature.  Spring is posed, ready to move, just awaiting the perfect moment.  Animals and plants are moving into position in the coming extravaganza.  The wind is cruel, the storms capricious, mother nature fickle.  Each cold snap or snowfall seems a personal affront, each day over fifty degrees a reward.
• Science is a fine thing, civilization wonderful, but we remain deliciously tied to our prehistoric instincts.  In some ways they are more captivating and real than all our logical constructions.  March can be crueler than April, and is easily visualized as being so on purpose.  That gives us perspective, and for all we know is true reality.

Comin' Tomorrow

Forced forsythia still bloom extravagantly in the kitchen, promising better days outside.

• Took a frosty morning walk along frozen paths at Caumsett State park, enjoying clear blue sky, bare tangled woodland, brown meadows.  Horses soaking up strengthening sunshine, beech leaf buds surprisingly swelling, a chipmunk early out of hibernation scampering on a leaf, and daffodil shoots barely peeking above the soil here and there.  Late winter harbingers of spring recalled all my other springs as if nothing has changed. 
• Away from the constant cries of print and electronic media, the world seems well.  But I am informed that it is not, that in 12 years or less than a century _ or possibly next week _ environmental disaster will kill everyone, or civilization will crash into desperate anarchy, or human dreams will finally end in nihilistic failure.  The beech tree and the chipmunk are deceptively normal:  I am enjoying the last glories of a doomed planet.
• An old depression-era song goes “don’t know what’s comin’ tomorrow.”  Nobody does.  Any savant who claims knowledge of what will be in 20 years is a charlatan.  Extrapolations, predictions, prophecies have a way of twisting into strange forms, even though some of them may get some things right, in some kind of way. 

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March contains nasty snowstorm surprises, each one hawked as the next grand disaster.

• I may be cynical because as part of the boomer generation I have often heard, and occasionally heeded, experts crying wolf for over seventy years.  “Ban the bomb” and the “Population Bomb” and millions of other doomsday scenarios have come and gone.  Life, culture, reality have endured.  Maybe this time scientific experts are right.  I remain too jaded to worry.
• Individual existence has always been precarious.  None of us know if we will see the next weekend.  All of us know we will not see the next century.  Science has tried to seduce us into seeing reality in the long, geologic view.  Consciousness, however, is measured in moments, not eons.  My personal story is hardly different than that of any peasant in any other age, when famine or plague or barbarians or simple bad luck could ruin all hopes, and even being, in an unexpected instant.
• This time is different, they chant.  The problems are not individual, not local.  This time is everywhere, global, for all time.  I understand intellectually, but viscerally I still exist today under clear blue skies, watching a chipmunk run.  I sip a glass of water, read a book, write this as I always have. 

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My seemingly simple breakfast is composed with oats from the Midwest, blueberries from Chile, milk from upstate NY, all using energy to grow, prepare, package, transport _ industrial civilization on a grand scale.  

• The ditty continues: “travlin’ along, singin’ a song, side by side.”  Each day which remains is special.  These moments are special.  The future may hold terrors, or everything may work out nicely, but I will never know.  Trying to know is futile, and I confess that I regard most of the gestures of many others as useless superstitions, placebos of the mind.  Bicycling to work will no more stave off carbon disaster than wearing a saint’s relic will prevent black death.  But it makes us feel we are at least doing something.
• After my walk, I remember trees abundant over hills, horses romping as breath glows around them, and countless geese taking a sedate crowd walk across a field before one panics and the rest take startled flight with raucous cries.  Tomorrow _ well I don’t know.  I will fight for memory preservation of today, never extended forever.