Lamenting the “Loss” of Spring…?

All around me, locally, I hear people complaining about the “loss” of spring, the missing season.  They are expecting summer to arrive without warning or transition.  And they are miserable enough about it to make conversations, and memes, and facebook statuses dedicated to their displeasure.  And the usual weather related conversations with strangers take on the same sinister tone.  Even I have been feeling the chill…

So I wonder… what exactly are we missing here?

True, it’s cold and damp this April.  And we’ve had snow, rain, ice and wind to contend with on a daily basis.  The sun shows himself rarely, and when he does the ambient temperature hovers just above freezing, while the arctic winds bear down, robbing him of any heat, and leaving us shivering in his brilliant light.  But here’s the thing that haunts me…

It’s early April here in western NY, and this is not atypical weather.  It’s always cold and damp this month, with precipitation taking many forms, both liquid and solid.  But the snows don’t stick to road surfaces or last throughout the day.  Shovelling and plowing are not required, and salt is only occasionally required to de-ice after freezing rains.  Only hardy, early spring flowers are surviving the wet conditions and frosty nights, but that is precisely why we don’t plant our annual garden fare until mid-May around here.  Everything must be started indoors and later transplanted.  Furnaces aren’t turned off until late May, usually, and air conditioners are not required until August at least.  And here in Rochester, where we celebrate the Lilac Festival for a week in early May, it is not unusual to have snow for part of it and sandal weather for the rest…

So what are we really missing here?

And then it hit me today, during meditation, that it isn’t about the weather at all.  We lament the loss of hope instead, the sense of promise that usually accompanies spring.  The “misery” of winter isn’t climate related, but emotional, as we mourn the lack of progress, renewal, rebirth.  Our world is dead/dying, and the majority are finally beginning to realize that things are not the same, everything is not going to come out right in the end, and summer will not arrive with endless sunny days of laughter and play…

Reality is sinking in…

And sunshine, alone, cannot salvage what has been sacrificed to apathy, ignorance and greed…

What is lost is gone, and cannot be recaptured…

Spring, like decency, justice, and truth, is dead…

So let us mourn together in the ways that suit us best.  Let our tears mingle with the cold spring rains, while our hearts absorb the winter’s chill.  And let us look ahead with courage and determination to reap what we have sown.

After all, acceptance may the final stage of grief, but it is also the first step to healing…

Poetry, Reflections


Sitting in the sunshine, frozen to my core

Forgetting what it felt like,

to ever feel warm…

I know that heat exists, out there beyond my self

Passion, hope and rage

are fueling violence and change…

But here where I am sitting, only numbness can survive

All else driven out now

by the whims of a consumed mind…

And temperature is just a gauge, another useless measure

Something used to judge and placate

an arbitrary line between the pain and pleasure…

Personification, another useless gesture, implying boundaries non-existent

False directives, planned conflict

attempts to impose imaginary structure…

But why even bother, why waste your energy?

If everything is lost

can anything get “better”?

I ponder the “need” to carry on, to see this to the end

I balk at taking final steps

I wonder about the when…?

For Time itself is failing now, buckling under the strain

Of too many misguided intentions

and too much wisdom slain…

So I’m sitting in the sunshine, frozen to my core

Forgetting what it felt like

to ever feel warm…


Dual Perspective…

One foot in one timeline, the other in an’Other, seeing the world(s) we live in from two (radically different) perspectives.  This brings a whole new definition to dual perspective for me, as each takes turns chiding and overriding the other’s assessment of things…

One a teenager in 1991 Colorado, the other a middle aged adult in 2018 New York, they are driven by different needs, goals, obsessions and desires.  But both are strong and vocal.  Both see the “truth” of their time.  And neither is giving up ground…

What is the point of this interaction?  This intense distraction?  To learn from each other, no doubt, but to learn what?  Exactly?  Because the experience, itself, is disorienting and frustrating, leading to unnecessary trip-ups and stupid mistakes, often leading to real consequences in both time lines.  And the dream…?

A dream of one timeline “draining” and absorbing the other?  To what end, and with what consequence?  Does one cease to exist altogether?  Or do both?  Or are they simply crippled in their own times, unable to act with any reasonable force, torn apart by wavering beliefs and uncertain decisions?


What happens when reality itself becomes two faced?  When perspective becomes nothing more than that – perspective?  When duality itself becomes unified, inseparably bound and unable to tear itself apart, to examine its component parts?  When neither “side” holds sway over the other, and cannot convince the Other to see things differently?

Dual perspective… a lesson in transcending dichotomy?  A blueprint for peace in both timelines?


Poetry, Reflections


I stand alone, within a crowd


Calming breaths, burrowing roots

still my restless self.

Every ounce of fortitude

every spark of will

every bit of discipline

required to rein Me in…

Now a statue, not stone, but flesh

my focus turns without.

To see the world pass me by

unmoved by my existence.

In every face, despair

In every voice, fear

In every life that passes

a story of distress.

For chaos rules the world today

and wicked winds of change.

Perhaps, if I can hold my ground,

my life would feel more sane…

But even here, unmoving,

reality seeks its claim…

Lightning strikes me from above,

attacks quite unanticipated.

Raging cyclones chip away

at balance, strength, and certainty.

And flocks of birds fly overhead,

to defecate quite purposely…

Yet here I stand, immobolized,

completely unprovoking…

So how am I to name this space?

What judgment comes to mind?

How can I explain this?

Or justify my time?

Is standing still the least destructive

for me and those nearby?

Or should I slip into the flow

let chaos be my guide?

Hanging on or letting go,

the difference is extreme.

So, caught between the consequences

Immobile I remain.



Where has my compassion gone?

I’m standing on the deck this cold winter morn, reflecting on all that is around/within me.  I notice the waning moon, face brilliantly unexpressive, shining dispassionately against the perfectly blue morning sky.  The crows caw their morning greetings, but I can barely force myself to respond.  As the chill seeps through the layers of my human made winter wear, I cannot rouse an ounce of motivation to push it away.  It reminds me of something… something close enough to feel, if not yet to name.

My mind reaches for happier thoughts… connections to the world around me.  I recall the joy I felt yesterday at the first stirring of the trees.  They are nowhere near awake around here yet, but I felt the rootlets twitching slightly, and the sap begin to soften, as the trees baked in the strong midwinter sun.  Soon… soon enough, my dear friends will waken, and our work together will commence once more…

I listen, and can hear my grandchildren giggling at last night’s party; such carefree abandon always makes me smile.  I see my grandaughter’s impish grin as she watches me, looking for a reaction as she manipulates the adults surrounding her.  I think about how my 6 year old grandson put himself in a “timeout” (yes, he called it that as he sat down), for accidentally knocking over an empty bottle in his enthusiastic play.  He is always so hard on himself, but I cannot help but admire such self-discipline in one so young…

And then my thoughts drift to the others, those in pain, who crossed my path yesterday.  My focus, however, is not so much on the pain they expressed in countless known or unknown ways, but in my reaction to it.  Because everyone is in pain these days, and such pain must find release…

My concern is about how I felt about it, how I reacted.  The person who told me a dozen times over a 4 hour visit how tired they were became annoying.  The one who worked so hard overcoming sadness and grief that their faux happiness gained enough volume to become excruciating.  The injustices shared, to which I could only mildly respond, “such is life.”  The person whose physical pain mirrored my own, so much so that I was grateful when they finally left.  Even my own discomfort captured less than my full attention, as I crawled up stairs with hands and feet, involuntary groans escaping (in front of people, even!), without me caring what others (or my self) might think…

Tears slip silently down my cheeks as I write these words, but no sobs accompany them.  They are the hopeless, unacknowledged grief of something lost, without the desire to even identify the cause.  But I suspect I know already, if the title of this piece carries any significance at all, for what I do NOT feel this morning is compassion.  Not for myself, nor for anyone (or perhaps any thing) at all.  I feel a void where it used to exist, an emptiness that holds only fading memory.  I remember caring.  I remember hurting.  I remember helping.  But all of that is in the past…

My eye is drawn back to that brilliant moon in a flawless cold midwinter sky…

Yes… dispassion is the right word for today, and it has crept in to every aspect of my awareness.  I guess that answers my question, doesn’t it?

Poetry, Reflections


Tossed to the roadside

left to die…

Like garbage from another time.

Pushed aside, out of sight

out of mind…

Irrelevant am I…

So who am I?

Who am I you left to die?

Who am I you pushed aside?

Who am I?

You decide…

Am I pride, dignity, or hope?

Trust or faith?

Reason, responsibility, humility perhaps?

Conscience, purpose, or justice?

For all of these are now abandoned,

drained of their power to motivate

and empower…

What then is left?

So… who am I, left here to die?

Whose relevancy has been pushed aside?

You decide…

Am I humanity,

and the planet on which we reside?

Or am I greed,

and the system on which it relies?

You decide…

Knowing no answer is an answer this time…

For abandonment is an action,

passive or aggressive,

the results will be the tide

that wipes away our history…

Tossed to the roadside

left to die

the garbage from another time…