> jumping into life.

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The rain has come. I wake in the night when the sudden cold breath of it slides over my skin, stumble out of bed to the window, then to the closet for the down comforter stashed away all summer. In the morning I lie long in bed, listening to the swish of car tires on the wet road, listening for the sounds of splatter and drip. All I can hear is the cars.

I came here in January, the land firmly in winter's grasp. I'd come before, exploratory trips, the January and November before. I had never seen this land without a mantle of snow. I loved it.

Spring eviscerated me. Spring pulled my guts out through my eyes and handed them back, all with a pretty smile. I held my hands out gratefully, greedily, smeared myself with blood. Everyday the world turned greener, until I was glad to have no eyes; everyday my heart beat stronger, pouring out the open places, drinking in the green. I loved it. There was rain then, too. There was rain all summer, in fits and bursts, in big storms and showers. Summer gave me a chance to get all my organs back in the right places, sew myself up tight. My skin reknit over the wounds of spring as the land settled back into a spectrum I understood, as the miracle of growth became mundane.

My calendar so far looks like this: Sledding, Sledding, Fiddleheads, Ramps, Dandelions, Fireflies, Swimming, Tomatoes, Canning, and Leaves. (I know I should probably have different names for January and February. Maybe next year.) I'm looking forward to learning November and December. I'm looking forward to the time when we can buy a forest house, and I will hear more than tires in the rain.


Spring does do that, doesn't she?

November can be hard - cold, cold rain and gray, and March disgusting in every way. Otherwise, yay New England!

this post reminded me of another annie dillard poem. the theme of what you wrote is different than the poem--except, actually, i'd argue that there's some overlap--but the way you named the months just made me think of it. anyway, here's the poem; it's called "God" (i had to put in slashes for line breaks because this comment area is too small to fit the poem formatted correctly):


Numbers from one to ten, however, are called/ "God." In other words, counting to ten you would/ say "God, God, God, God, God, God, God, God, God,/ God." It is possible to distinguish among these/ numbers by the tone in which each is pronounced./ "God," for example, corresponding to our "five,"/ is pitched relatively high on the musical scale,/ and accordingly sounds an inquisitive, even plaintive,/ note. It is in sharp contrast to the number corre-/ sponding to our "ten," which has a slightly accented,/ basso finality, thus: "God."



Jenn - I like that poem, too. I wasn't thinking of it when I named my months, but I do see the resemblance.

Therio - March wasn't too bad this year, but it was my first March, so we'll see. And fiddleheads! And as for cold, cold rain and gray, that's basically my favorite weather.

Wonderful writing.

The colors in November are my favorite of the whole year. I get tired of the relentless green; in November the landscape gets subtle and you have to look for its beauty, but it's there. March...well, we get through it, blown by the wind!

It's true about November - any time I have had fire - a wood stove, fireplace, or pellet stove, I have loved it.

And my March/Mud Season Affective Disorder (MAD, of course) makes me cranky.

The perfect storm of mud and a culmination of months of dark.

But Beth reminds me of the wuthering, true of both months, which I deeply love.

The banshee wind, wild and wet.

That part could, with the right combination of full spectrum light bulbs, vitamin B, and a woodstove, make even March almost worthwhile. ; )

Lovely, Kat.

I am reminded of how much I loved living in New England. I, too, moved there in January, to a city blanketed in gritty, graying snow... but it was snow, and no matter its color, a delight to a Gulf Coast native. For the first time, I wore a hat for warmth. The first buds on the magnolias next to my dorm made me giddy, the pink tulip-shaped blossoms even more so, as winter melted (and froze, melted, froze, then melted some more) into spring. Summer swept me onto my feet, had me dancing (and sometimes singing) down the city's sidewalks. But it was autumn that I loved the most. Slanting sunlight on fiery leaves, crisp mornings, the smell of woodsmoke in the air, the perfect quiet of snow falling at night.

I look forward to learning your names for the last couple of months of the New England year.

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