It’s too short. Even Thanksgiving feels longer for some inexplicable reason. But spring break comes and goes and you are left with the feeling that nothing happened: there was no spring and there was no break.
When I was in Chicago this past week-end, in that burst of warm air, I thought how different life would be if spring break fulfilled the expectation of a true pause in life, one that allowed you to revel in the warmth and light that I imagine for this season. My imagination moves me outdoors and places me at a table with terrific people watching opportunities. Something not dissimilar to this:
Chicago: reflecting on the essence of whatever
I ought not be bothered by the howling wind outside, the cold temperatures. I ought to be used to it. I am a child of northern climates. A chance of snow later this week in Madison. A chance of snow by the week-end in Warsaw, Poland. So I understand that this month does nothing to undo the nakedness of trees, nor does it help the first crocuses stay strong and sturdy against the gusts of cold air.
I understand that I have to wait, but I am not happy about it. I’ll stay indoors with the furnace blowing warm air and make do with my jug of flowers, the same ones that will soon appear at our local market. Okay, maybe not so soon. Okay, maybe in a couple of months. Maybe.
Some spring break.