Time and weather

Tags

aging, blogs, postaday2013, seasons, weather, writing

I’m in a quandary. This winter has seemed so long that I am chafing at the bit for a proper spring to arrive, but I can’t help but think time is passing too quickly and I should embrace how slowly time seems to be moving in relation to the weather. My thinking and feeling about this are not logical by any measure; if spring takes its time, the calendar will still unfold and time will still move along closer day by day to my birthday.

Vanity is ruling my grasp of logic. I should be willing the weather to be warmer instead of wanting time to stay stuck in a cold rut. I am not looking forward to turning 46. That however shouldn’t mean that I have to be chilled about it or deprive my gardens of more greenery.

I suppose I am thinking that if the days become warmer and lovelier than time will just fly by and before I know it, summer will be upon us because when the days are grey and cold it seems to be a never ending glimpse down a dark tunnel. If memory serves me correctly I did write at one point asking where in the world February went, so my feelings at least in the case of February, shows that time did speed by even though it was freezing outside.

So I should set vanity aside and not view my upcoming birthday with such dread; it is only a number, at least that is what I am told by all those who are older than I. I definitely never complain about my age to the ladies at weight class because I am scared to be thrown out. Just kidding, I don’t think that they would throw me out, lol.

The transporter

Tell us about a sensation — a taste, a smell, a piece of music — that transports you back to childhood.

When I was little and my sister and I were in France at my uncle's house along with my grandparents and my cousins, we were a large extended family under one roof and I loved it; my grandfather every evening, around 6:00 would walk the dogs, Prince and Whinny, throughout the grounds and towards the far back of the property, my grandfather would burn old wood, paper and newspaper. The smell of the burning pile that would waft throughout the air would alert me to where my grandfather was and I would run and join him, putting my little hand in his enormous hand. In my eyes, he was a giant, even at 80 plus years, he still stood over six feet. To this day whenever I smell a certain type of fire, not all fires smell the same, it brings me back immediately to my family's house in France, to me being a little girl and my giant grandfather and I smile.