This post was originally written last May 3rd. Holy krep it was an early spring last year. We are a good 2+ weeks behind this year. Which is my way of saying it’s time for another “pre-posted” blog post. Now with 20% more fiber!
May is my second favorite month, losing out to October by a whisker. I guess that means I’m a glass half empty kind of guy. Even though fall takes pride of place over spring, I still rejoice each year when May arrives. The skies are clear and cool, the leaves still hold that yellowish hue, and our world is reborn. Even though it is still too soon for the lazy summer heat, and we can still suffer from cold and freezing rain, I love it just the same. I love it as I love Thursday, not for what it is, but for what it heralds. May is the forerunner of summer. It arrives like the angel Gabriel to proclaim the salvation that awaits. School will end, and the heat will come, and summer will stretch above us like an endless blue sky.
I wonder how different my life would have been if I’d have grown up in a southern land where May and October weren’t the bookends of Summer. I have always been affected by the seasons, and in our northern climate life is lived according to their rhythms. If I’d have lived in a land of eternal summer I would have grown up to be a different man. Maybe I wouldn’t have this nostalgia for things left behind. Maybe life would only exist for me in the present.
Instead I live my life, poised between a past I struggle to understand, and a future I struggle to predict. To me the present only exists in relation to the past and the future. Unless I can make sense of the past, and speculate about the future, the present just doesn’t make sense.
Last night, I stood on the deck looking up at the indigo sky, watching satellites cross the heavens in their polar orbits. Passing from South to North above us every night, glinting in the light of the sun hidden over the horizon, their steady progress betraying the violence of their velocity. I looked around at the dark shapes of the pines silhouetted like missiles against the stars, and thought of our own orbits. Passing through the seasons, as steady as a satellite, our speed disguised by the distances we have crossed. We begin in a blaze of fire, before settling into our steady orbits, until time itself is marked by our passing. Counting off the seasons with each pass, gleaming in the light reflected from a sun we cannot see, until at last we fall back to earth, another a cold dark star burning across the sky.