About giving into the joys that a change of season brings, about renewal.
The retreat of the morose winter is a reason to be happy. And not just the plain vanilla happiness that we are grateful to be handed out at most times, but that flavour which makes you wish for a tail of your own so that you could thump away as the temperatures jack-up in your heart, warming the very cockles there.
The sun wakes me up a little earlier each day, it feels as if some extra time is being secretly doled out to me. There is a sweet lightness to waking up to find that the covers no longer pin me down. The natural thermostat of the body makes me fling them aside, perhaps at that very moment when the rising mercury came back to power. Yes, the summer Gods are reclaiming the earth back, and the naive trees who preserve no memory of how quickly this gentle warmth turns to fury, spread their arms out wide in a languorous stretch and slowly sigh. The whole of nature is shaking itself to a state of wakeful consciousness and I join in involuntarily.
I casually un-tuck the palms that had made home in my pockets to roll out my yoga mat. The desire to stay huddled eagerly gives way to the need to master the pose that proved elusive on the freezing floor. The limbs are on fire double-quick, and a suppleness hitherto presumed extinct, crowns slowly. The cold sweat does a few dry-runs, gleefully readying itself to play havoc with every posture that I will lock the body in when the summer unlocks it’s heart to the world.
The ice-cubes make a splash at breakfast, bobbing in my glass of milk in a rhythm that is half-forgotten, but easily remembered. The newspaper crackles, the words jump up at me in the natural light that need struggle no more to get through the window-pane. I take in the news of rabid activity everywhere, no longer drawing back in awe at how some people find it in themselves to even move during the winter chill!
More and more toes peep out at me as ladies kick-off their clumpy shoes in favour of the strappy numbers in their shoe racks. The neckties languish in men’s pockets, no longer called to attention as often. The wardrobe door opens wide, and the dresses line-up willingly sensing their day-out just round the corner. Could they have been marking days on my calendar as well?
Everywhere outside it seems, people have beaten me in resuming their lives from where they were let off last night. The masters have already been whisked off to their workplace, leaving the car parks yawning invitingly for small children to rush and play ball, or skate or cycle under the covered roof. The vegetable seller is ordering seconds on the telephone as the late-comers scrounge through the remains from the morning assault. The ice-cream carts, back after a long time-out, take-up their positions on either side of the road, renewing their rivalry from the last season.
I thumb through the brochures with pictures of frozen lakes and snowed under mountains while my third eye shows me a lyrical trailer of a vacation that could serve as an advance compensation prize for the travails of the summer-to-come. I scour through the happenings in the city, anticipating long evenings when we head out after supper once again.
Everything around me cranes it’s neck forward, clamouring to read the patterns made by the changing winds. In the circle of life, many seasons will come visiting. It is a grand seesaw, one push takes us all the way up while another lands us back on the hard ground. In a game created with deliberate thought, I keep my balance, and tell my mind to let go.