Yesterday it snowed at our farm. While the snow didn’t stick and was no longer in evidence by evening, the fact of its occurrence served as a reminder that Winter is still with us, officially and otherwise.
I take issue with T. S. Eliot. I am of the opinion that February, not April, is the cruelest month. So, I was joyous when I awoke this morning, the first day following February’s demise, the first day of March. For February is the year’s most plodding month: a month in which we endure each day as it comes with resignation and a sigh, taking solace in the knowledge that when that day ends we are just that much closer to March. February is a month measured in inches, not miles. February is a month in which we are fully conscious of Zeno’s Paradox, through constant contemplation of how many hours and minutes must pass before we finally achieve half of the remaining distance to month’s end.
March, however, is a new beginning. While March always starts in Winter, it inevitably ends in Spring. March is the fulcrum from which Winter’s spare bleakness is converted to the joyful riot of Spring. March is the month when icy melt waters from formerly pristine blankets of snow complete a metamorphoses into the warming stuff of life, converting mud and dirt to blossom and color along the way.
And when the first day of March finally arrives, as it did this morning, it always brings hope – even though today’s cold, rainy weather resembles nothing so much as that which occurred yesterday, the last day of February. For our hope lies in the date, not in the sky.
