Halfway through a half-assed winter, and the sun makes a glorious return, rising high and almost-hot, and suddenly it feels like the middle of March when it’s barely the second week in February. When we’ve barely had any winter at all. Standing in line to buy a pound of coffee and a tub of yogurt, I overhear someone talking about their climate grief, and then at the lumberyard I hear someone talking about how they started tapping two weeks earlier than usual and damned if they didn’t wish they’d made it three. The narrow gravel road we live on transitions between ice and mud and ice again, and Kyle tells me we’re going to need to increase the town’s budget for material; he’s been waging an ongoing war against the ruts and potholes opened by the constant freeze/thaw/freeze cycle and the big piles down at the town garage are disappearing fast. We’ve had two mud seasons already this winter, and it seem we might be on the cusp of a third. I vacillate between bemoaning the weather and wielding my own peculiar brand of stoic philosophy, which basically involves making up pithy affirmation sayings and then sharing them as broadly (and frequently) as possible, a past time which has not entirely endeared me to my family . “Comfort is where growth goes to die” is my favorite so far, though I acknowledge it’s not the most obvious response to a weak winter. But still: Comfort is where growth goes to die.
You gotta admit, it’s pretty damn good.
Music: Really digging this tune by Pony Bradshaw
Words: Really loved this book by Lily Brooks-Dalton
Ben Hewitt 