The February Blues

    As I write this, the snow is flying horizontally out my window.  The wind is steady out of the East which likely means that this storm shall be held in place to dump its load for a while.  It is a little refreshing to have this mini weather drama.  These days of February bleed one into the next with the steady sound that resembles a leaky faucet. And though the daylight hours are increasing minutes at a time with each passing day, the change is nearly undetectable as mid-winter carries with it such deep depressing gloom.


Something rank seeps into the soul this time of year.  I’m not sure if it is the lack of sunshine, or the monotony of weeks passing without much merry making, or if it is a symptom of cabin fever, but it clearly grabs hold of a whole bunch of us and our moods become as icy as the parking lot outside this window.  Boredom is an emotion that I dread to admit to; I take pride in noticing something beautiful or inspiring in the world around me.  Yet, at this time of year, inspiration seems oh so elusive. Patience wears thin, cynicism looms large, hearts ache for that which they’ve been starved of, waistlines expand, sinuses throb, skin turns pale and dry, and eyes glaze over in an endless see of white and grey.


I have to ask myself, “Do I really love everything about winter?”


My answer is this:  For at least thirty of the forty-four years of this life, I’ve found myself suddenly sinking into the depths of the mid-winter doldrums wondering what the heck is going wrong with me.  And each time it is the calendar that reminds me of what lies at the base of my on-going foul mood.  ‘Tis February that’s all!  Another eight long weeks from now, things will be looking much better.  A warm southerly gust shall fill my sails and the world will once again take on the wonder I once knew as a child.  So, if ever there was something to love about the second half of winter, it is the longing we have for that which is to come, for that which will come in its own good time.


The sweetness of a spring morning is unknown to those who’ve not known the long bitter nights of winter.

juan1966 juan1966
46-50, M
Feb 9, 2010