April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
I’m taken aback when I realize that two years ago at this time the lilacs were blooming. This winter really was what it seemed: long. Today, I’m going to go out in the yard and photograph the stage they’re at now for comparison.
I suppose if every year was the same it would be predictably boring. There are reasons that I don’t understand why seasons change so much from year to year. Mine is simply to appreciate the now.
It’s something I’m still working on.