Dear April,

I might be more sensitive to the elements than the average soul. Especially this time of year. April showers. Blustery winds whipping from any direction. Dust and pollen kicked up. Ominous to the north one day, storms brewing in the south the next.

As much as I love change, thrive in the unknown, I am so unsettled in Spring. Willing it to just be rainy or just be sunny – not both simultaneously. Mother Nature in her most fickle, indecisive whimsy. Shall I wear this white, snowy blanket? How about these purple crocus earrings? Does this mud make me look fat?

Especially because I know what’s around the corner: sunshine, warmth, river days, cold beers, tank tops, skinny dipping, running to peaks, sleeping under the stars. When summer gets so close I can taste it, something inside me gets furious with angst. Over being cold, over a tumultuous state of being and ready for coffee on the porch in the morning and cocktails in the fading daylight hours.

I’ll spend June, July, and August in a gluttonous stupor, feasting on the elements, getting to the high places, sucking the marrow out of every sun-soaked day. And then come September and October, my favorite. Time for festivals, sweaters, andĀ fall’s dress rehearsal.

When the aspen change from green to burnt shades of gold, orange, and red, tickled by pleasant breezes, they quake in harmony with exactly where I want to be. For whatever reason, autumn is that season I feel the least stir crazy, the most content. Cup overflowing with summer memories, skin warm and tan from days spent exploring and playing, and a quietness and rest that just seem to take me forever to reach.

And just in time, November will bring some gray chill that’s kind of a downer but also exciting because I’ll be ready for snow then, and afternoons spent baking bread and cookies, evenings by the fireplace sipping wine and reading stories, shorter days for earlier bedtimes. Sleep. Hibernation. These things make sense by December.

Especially because December, January, and February mean more celebrations. Like the festivals of fall, there’s enough to toast to and days hopefully packed with frosty breath, blower powder, and cozy nights snuggled in the biscuit.

And then, the cold needs to go. Because by March, I’m feeling so dry, so pale, so tired of being cold that when April finally rolls around, I’m so over short days and so ready for summer and fall to kick back into gear, that I just have to scream literally into the wind: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, APRIL?!

If only I could learn to not wish away the moments in these precious days.

So bring it on, May. I’m determined to love you in your steady plodding towards wildflowers, flourishing hillsides, budding trees, and flowing streams. Meanwhile, April, I’ll use you for your opportunity to sit and reflect about what I know about the seasons. Thanks for being so unbearably awful that I’m finally inspired to write a post on this forsaken blog. Regardless of my gratitude, I hope you know I’ll never like you.

Love,

Joy

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