March 2011
A Springtime out of Time
Spring.
It never fails to excite, does it?
When I think of spring I think of new life and the banishment of cold. I love it. That said, I treat the season with a different mode of appreciation now that I am a grown man living in the northern US, as opposed to the kid I was, banging up and down Australia’s east coast.
I mean, I was twenty-one when I left Australia. Twenty-one is not an age oft prized for its depth and range of introspection. And as for the weather: it’s consistently colder here in Western New York than anywhere in Australia. My idea of normal has adapted to the extent that I ran 6.5 miles this morning in 22 degrees F and it felt, uh, normal.
But it is a cold, wintertime normal we’re in now, so I’m more than moderately happy that spring is finally coming. If adapting to a new normal of spring means regular sunshine, getting outside in the yard with my wife and kids (Isobel and I are growing heirloom tomatoes this year), and running in shorts and t-shirt again (instead of four layers), then I’m your man.
My friend Allen James was a “track-brat” in his native Seattle and as an Olympic-level race walker he has spent more than enough time out of doors watching the seasons ebb and flow to not have an eye out for the first signs of spring.
We’re in the same athletic club, though I will admit that his walking is a good deal faster than my running. Bonds Lake Athletic Club, luckily, is sufficiently inclusive that it has room enough for both of us.
Last Saturday, as we headed out from the change rooms for my long run (and his walk…) he wordlessly pointed to a cresting burst of pale yellow in a garden beside the path. They were the first crocuses of the season: a golden, almost translucent reminder that other more subtle signs are out there for those of us with eyes to see. Even in the midst of snow and frigid winds, the new life of spring is, again, returning.
Speaking of new life, here’s some more news: Laura and I have our third baby on the way! We don’t know if it is a boy or girl and we are going to wait to find out, which seems, to me at least, the natural way to do things. I’m comfortable to have it in print that yes, of course, I am hoping for a boy. As both of our daughters Isobel and Molly have agreed, we have enough girls in this house.
That said, if God blesses me with a daughter, I think I’ll love her pretty well, regardless. Anyone requiring evidence of this need only wander through my previous essays to realise I like my girls pretty well.
But I still want a boy.
The baby will not be here this spring – we’re expecting him at the start of September – but I’ve done too much archetypal / mythological /symbolic reading and study to not be excited and personally moved by the fertility vibe inherent within the season of spring.
You know – the cycle of life, death and new life. The darkness (death) of night followed by the re-emergence of the sun (life) in the morning. The death of winter followed by the new life of spring, which grows into the productive, pleasurable middle years of summer and which finally and interminably retreat into the declining autumnal years as the life force gently ebbs and is mystically appropriated by the next generation
As a student of literature, I’m aware that a good deal of work has been done in tracing this seasonal course through the lives of great heroes who must (because they are heroes and that is what heroes do…) go through the cycle and reemerge (literally or metaphorically) on the other side. Examples are thick within many, if not most, ancient traditions. Some more modern ones, however, include:
§ Aragorn in Lord of the Rings
§ ET’s ‘death’ on the examination table
§ Luke Skywalker’s emergence from the garbage compactor in Star Wars.
§ Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows
[Knowing this myth stuff made that final book great. I knew Harry would die. He had to. But I also knew he’d be back, because yes, he had to. Knowing that it is going to happen doesn’t diminish the pleasure one gets in the telling when the tale is in the hands of a master storyteller such as Rowling.]
In western thought, the hero we are most familiar with Jesus Christ. His story of rebirth isn’t the original, in this context of ‘stories handed down’, but I would argue that he was the best in that he ongoingly shares his gift whereas Aragorn, Harry, ET, and Luke’s resurrection were one-off gigs. His having been preceded by rebirth legends is kind of counter-balanced by the fact that he knew what was coming from the forming of the world (What’s that line from Mel Brooks’ History of the World? “It’s good to be the King!”), and anyway, the Old Testament is littered with hints and references of what was to come.
Of course there is a limited applicability of my musings on the return of the spring to an autumn-bound southern hemispherical audience. There are, to my reckoning, three things you can do with this essay: a), tear it out and hang it on a nail in your 1930’s outside dunny, b) put it aside until September and pull it out then to make yourself feel better, or c) consider the idea of ‘rejuvenation’ in the extra context that I have been.
For a couple of months there have been continual stories of flood, bushfire, cyclone, further floods, etc., flowing across the Pacific from Australia. How many times have I been rudely jolted out of my everyday by friends over here asking me if I’ve friends or loved ones affected by the latest disaster? If I am done with the bad news I can hardly imagine how everyone back home, up and down the coast and across the continent, must be thoroughly shot of it.
And so I hope that this next season is one of rejuvenation and repair. I hope there’s a fresh burst of good news and new life. I hope my country enjoys a peaceful a springtime out of time.
Kookaburra