March, is the cruelest month…
Two days ago we got one of the worst winter storms of the seasons. Snow, ice pellets, freezing rain, impassable driveways – it ran the gamut of depression and late-March despair.
Today, I sit on the porch, basking in God’s Easter magnificence, the spring sun shining on my face as I read DeLillo and listen to great sheets of ice and snow slide and fall from the barn roof, smacking the ground with great whumps, feeling the vibration slam through the porch with a great smack.
March can do that to you.
One day great tragedy, the next, you’re seated at the right hand of God!
March is both manic, and depressive.
Every March I age ten years.
It was because of March that I left this country as a young man barely out of high school – vowing never to return.
Why would I want to be living through Spring’s great bipolar birthing contractions when I could be getting laid on a beach in South Miami, or drinking mai-tai’s in Kuai?
But today March is Tom Robbins, Hunter Thompson and memories of south Miami beaches.
Two days ago – what with the ice pellets and freezing rain covering the land in a solid block and me feeding a month’s worth of birdfeed to about 300 half-frozen and hungry chic-a-dees, red-winged blackbirds, bluejays, nuthatches, finches, and a couple of other species that I don’t know – the entire day as dark as dawn – I wanted to wrench at my clothes, and I had homicidal tendencies that felt vivid and true.
Without fail 10,000 imagined slights raised their ugly heads and I looked at my partner with a great urge to run away.
To tell everyone I’m leaving – as if an emotional acid trip is what I needed to survive.
Talk about an addiction rush!
March used to make me suicidal – in the days before Seasonally Affected Disorder.
I walk through it more consciously now, more mindfully,
but it doesn’t mean I still don’t hear the Sirens calling my name.