American essayist, poet, and philosopher Henry David Thoreau wrote the following over 150 years ago: “Why should we be in such desperate haste to succeed, and in such desperate enterprises. If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” Sounds like my kind of guy. Also makes me think that while our environment changes, the human condition does not.
The drummer I’m hearing these days — I’m certain some of you are hearing it, too — is tapping out a slow, rhythmic emergence – a cadence with crescendo leading us to (drum roll) . . . April. My favorite month.
And desperation as mentioned by Thoreau pretty accurately describes how much I was ready for the colorless, dreary days of winter to be over. I’ve been laughed at and told by Yankee friends that I’m a weenie and could never handle a “real” winter. I suppose they’re right. But I also remind them that they couldn’t handle a “real” summer.
March has been described as a time when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. That sounds about right. I wish I could figure out a way to bottle the gentle warmth and cool breeze of this time of year for both the scorching, drippy days of our summers and the icky (I challenge you to find a better meteorological term) damp, frigid (it’s relative – below 50 degrees qualifies in my book) yuckiness that defines a Southern winter.
But then again, the vibrancy of spring is probably more enjoyable simply because it is fleeting. To have it available at my whim would ruin the whole concept, I’m sure. Plus, I read somewhere that I should be interested in the changing of the seasons as it will make me happier than being infatuated with spring alone. I can’t help it, though. My eyes see it all in Technicolor, and it does appear more attractive than the others.
As I walk outdoors, I can hear the popping, the bursting, the chirping, the struggle of rebirth, the fluttering, and, yes, the quiet dusting of pollen particles floating through the air. It all comprises what ends up being my heart singing its own little concerto of awakening.
So, if I seem a little off tempo with the rest of the world, know that I try to march with others, but invariably end up out of step as I revel in the wonder of what will unfold along with new blooms. I know it sometimes makes me appear mad as a March hare, but I prefer calling it spring fever. And you won’t find me looking for a cure. I rather enjoy the frenzied pulse – creates a catchy tune. Marching to the beat of a different drummer – there’s nothing further from desperation and nothing closer to the boldness of enterprise.
March 22nd, 2010 at 3:12 am
Dang tootin’, Dag! I could have written this article word for word, as you have expressed my thoughts exactly! Good writing!