It’s April!
As I write to you, a winter storm's rolling into our neck of the woods.
(But…it’s April.)
The weather reports continue to change, but it's looking like we could wind up with anywhere from seven to ten inches of fresh snow.
(But…it’s April.)
This is where I'm tempted to stick that emoji of the face screaming in fear, eyes whited out, head turning blue. You know the one.
But I'm not going to, and I'll tell you why.
All through late-February and into mid-March, I welcomed the random snow flurries, even as they came after unseasonably warm weekends.
Even after it seemed we were on a 40- and 50-degree streak (that's, like, seven to ten degrees for you Celsius folks; not exactly t-shirt weather, but a far cry from your typical harsh winter temperatures).
I felt fine about winter weather because it was, well, winter here.
As others groaned on social media over each new snowfall, I delighted over how magical it all felt.
Snow, for me, has never been anything other than enchanting.
Then, as March was wrapping up and we started seeing signs of spring (crocuses on the nearby college campus! Buds forming on the trees), I'd get out of bed each morning, twist open the blinds, and exclaim playfully to my husband, "Snow!" even though there was none.
It became a running joke, and it was funny only because it was truly possible.
As Dana's told me many times before, there's usually one last snowstorm of the season—sometimes in April, sometimes even in May (horror of horrors; I want to insert that screaming emoji again)—here in northeastern Wisconsin.
At the same time, I found myself wincing a little when I first heard the news that this storm was coming.
I surprised myself by feeling badly about the weather.
It was as though my magical, snow globe feelings had vanished because it's spring, dammit, and I need the weather to reflect that!
But I don't want to be the person who needs the weather to go a certain way in order to feel okay about life.
The reason I'm not channeling that screaming emoji is because it’s the face of someone who’s resisting what is.
And if there’s one thing I know about resistance, it’s that it’s the source of all suffering.
Not the weather. Not the seasons. Not foiled plans or thwarted hopes.
Resistance to what is.
Do I want it to be spring?
Yes, of course.
And guess what?
It is spring; it's just that this spring, the spring of 2018, looks like this where I live.
Actually, let me correct myself. This is what today looks like. (See how quickly my mind wanted to make this a blanket statement about all of spring?!)
It looks like crocuses one day and a white-out the next.
This is exactly how it's supposed to be—because nothing else, no other reality, exists for April 3rd, 2018 in northeastern Wisconsin.
Do you get what I'm saying?
Nothing is wrong here. Spring isn’t broken. April 3rd isn’t failing or falling short.
It’s just this.
We 😱suffer😱 when we believe things are supposed to be different from how they are. When we need life to be different from how it’s showing up.
So, instead of suffering today, I'm taking my cue from the robin outside my window. He’s been perched in one of our two crabapple trees, watching the snow fall since I first sat down in front of my laptop to write this note to you.
(Just as I typed that sentence, a different robin landed in our other crabapple tree and is doing much the same—sitting, waiting, watching, and puffing out its feathers to stay warm.)
Like the robins, I'm going to exist in this moment (what other choice do I have?), but minus all the commentary on how this moment isn’t right and ought to be something else.
And that, I think, is peace.