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.