Long ago, the poet T.S. Eliot wrote this: ‘April is the cruelest month”. I think I may know what he meant. Days and days of sun versus rain. Scatttered showers, says the weather report. Temperatures refusing to move much above the 50 degree mark. Hovering between winter and summer, we hope for just one warm ray of sun. April, thatTrickster, winking behind a raincloud. Leave your hooded rain jacket behind and you’ll get drenched when the sky opens up. Zip it up and you will roast when the sun decides to come out from behind that cloud.
But therein lies the magic. Peek out the window in the morning and try, just try, to predict the sky’s plans for the day. It doesn’t work. Settle into a commitment to gardening or painting the shed and get soaked to the skin by an incessant deluge. Give up in despair of seeing one sunbeam and look out an hour later to pervasive golden light.
It’s OK. We just wait for the next surprise and go with it. Never mind the dandelions and black flies. Check out the violets and the robins. It’s April.