Springtime

I just read a great piece by the wonderful Annie Lamott in the Washington Post about aging and acceptance. About resting in the idea that most things will work themselves out, I’m hoping that spring will make up its mind.

Okay, maybe the problem is winter, not spring’s fault.

The neck-snapping whiplash of the seasons is killing me. Yesterday me and my son-in-law were sitting out on the deck with hot tea, the baby snoozing in a stroller while Jack combed the backyard for “worms”; we were basking in sunshine and warmth (while still wearing knit hats and hoodies). Nevertheless, it felt great. I cast a glance at the snow shovel and thought, I’m gonna have to put that away.

Right now, this morning, ten hours later, it is snowing an inch an hour. Big fluffy flakes coming down. I’m thinking of Lamott’s piece and wishing I were retired, a famous writer, not having to ride my bike into work in 30 minutes. What’s up with this weather? Finally, thinking, There’s nothing I can do about this and accepting that it is spring, a season that cannot make up its mind.

Through mutual encouragement a friend of mine, my writing partner back in Chicago, has started a blog, a sort of morning pages exercise to unblock her in her writing process. Her first few posts have been about aging. I guess we’re all at a certain age where we’re thinking about getting older—as we go about our daily lives. Not old like my senile aunt who lay in bed with scraggly white hair and talked nonsense when we went to visit, but old in the sense of needing some perspective on what is happening to us, our bodies, in the world. I hate it. The mass gun shootings, Gaza, the crazy weather, the fact that I’m so busy in this season of life that I have little time for writing the great American novel. My critique group told me yesterday that I’m being hard on myself.

I want to believe that spring is coming while at the same time relinquishing control over my surroundings.

It’s going to be a long election year with force-fed ads, outrageous news, possibly violence, definitely division: I must be ready to believe and hope and pray for brighter days.

More NEXT time on Slow Looking my upcoming seminar for the Festival of Faith and Writing—where, by the way, Annie Lamott has spoken.