The melancholy of February

Here we are in February. Nearly the end of February and I do believe spring has sprung.

Whenever February rolls around I start to get mildly depressed because I realize the hope of another snow is fading fast. And this leads to me contemplate once again fall and winter.

I like fall. There’s a brightness, a cleanness, a crispness to the air. The colors are amazing and beautiful. As the temperatures begin to drop you have to start layering your clothes. I know this is strange, but I like the way it feels to wear layers. This lasts into early spring.

There is so much anticipation in the fall. First frost. When will the leaves turn? When will they peak? Thanksgiving. Advent. Christmas. Advent and Christmas are seasons so full of joy and light and hope! The possibility of snow. And the music. I love Christmas music. And, while I have never been big on this, there is the coming of a new year.

Once winter sets in, it is a different story. Winter actually begins in December, on the 21^st, and is part of what is for me a joyous season. But January and February are different. They are sort of gloomy for me. There is still the possibility of snow, always a delight. I love snow. Love the hope of it and watching it’s silent fall, the way it covers the ground and changes the appearance of everything. How crisp the days are! And listening to it crunch under foot. And I like cold weather! Yet these are sad, gloomy months for me.

Why? If it is not the winter elements themselves, what is it? There is nothing to look forward to. Nothing to anticipate. And this accentuates the barrenness.

Ahh, but you say, "There is spring. Spring is coming." I like the spring. It’s bright. A different kind of bright than the fall, but a definite brightness. And I love to get home from work in the morning and hear the birds singing. But that puts January and February in that dismal light – you are just waiting for them to end. And that seems so negative. I prefer the positive anticipation of fall.

I realize transitions are difficult for me. I like to think I take pleasure in the season I am in. Some folks are forever looking forward to the next season: "Can’t wait till spring gets here." Or summer etc. When it’s spring I enjoy spring; when it’s summer, the summer. When it’s fall, the fall. And, I like winter. But January and especially February… winter is in its last gasp. The only 'celebration' is the end of something. That’s depressing.

I will enjoy the spring. But right now, there is the melancholy of February.