It's a beautiful Sunday morning out there, at least from this side of the pane. The sun is shining ever so brilliantly, forcing the snow to give ground. Of course, I could have said the same on Friday only to awaken to a prodigious, fresh snowfall yesterday. I guess we are in the teasing season when one day's happy harbinger is replaced by the next day's cruel coldness. But the harbingers are beginning to dawn with somewhat greater frequently, and one day in the next few weeks we will know that we have crossed the transition from winter into the next phase. Note that I say next phase and not spring. For, once we escape winter's tight grasp, we will not yet be in spring, but in that transition zone between the two seasons: a time when old-man-winter will rally to fire short, rearguard bursts during his inevitable but reluctant retreat.
When I looked out and witnessed the morn's ebullient sunshine, I felt a little joyous leap inside and thought that it might be nice enough to take a short spin on the bikes. Then, I checked The Weather Network and was quickly disabused, for however nice it looks through the glass, the exterior temperatures remain below zero. The sun's warmth will probably compensate nicely for the low temperatures and make for a most pleasant stroll by the bay or the lake this afternoon, but it's still a bit too nippy for biking. We could manage to do it, but I fear that it would not be an altogether joyous enterprise.
And so, I was tempted to grumble, grouse, and complain, but then I gave myself a rather sharp shot to the side of the head (which I find eminently preferable to a kick in the groin, and I urge you to experiment with both remedies if you are inclined to doubt my honesty and sincerity in this matter). Hadn't I just written a note of condolence to an old friend whose father has just passed away? Doesn't D1's father-in-law lie in the hospital recovering (hopefully) from a significant health hazard? So, why have I rather pathetically succumbed to bemoaning my irritating but endurable back problems, anguishing over a few paltry flu-and-tired symptoms, and pouting over Old Man Winter's seemingly unslackening grip?
Of course, we all know exactly why we sometimes permit ourselves to become less than giddy with life: because it is human to do so; because we are imperfect, and our frailties cannot help but disappoint us on occasion; because it is natural for our feelings to fluctuate; because our spirits absolutely strive for the necessary emotional balance between moments of melancholy and snatches of serenity.
There always comes the existential moment as though someone had held sharp smelling salts to our nostrils. We shake our heads as if emerging from torpor and burst forward in much improved frame of mind.