O Winter, wherefore art thou?

Warning: Dreary thoughts on a dreary day

When the world’s as gloomy as it is now, and you’re inclined gloominess anyway, this dreary pseudo-winter is taking an emotional toll. At least, in the midst of a disintegrating global order, could we not at least have a blizzard or two, followed by those sharp, clear, blindingly white days that define January in northern Ontario? Can’t we at least pretend all is well? Apparently not. And please, winter-haters, don’t accost me with your cheery accolades to these March-in-January days. You know in your hearts that it’s wrong. Just wrong. I should not be looking out at grass and tracking mud into the house. It should not be raining, for god’s sake.

“Oh, we’ll pay,” they say at the gas station, the hair dressers, the grocery check-out, when the inevitable small talk turns to the unseasonable weather. Yes, we will. But I’m not sure we mean the same thing. There may be a down-payment in February, though the forecasts don’t suggest that. But a much larger invoice is coming. Fact is, it’s already in the mail.

I’ve referred here before to my favourite hymn—not that hymns are my forte—which begins like this: My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation. I often think of these words when I compare the flow of my comfortable and generally happy life, with the turmoil that is rocking the planet right now. And yes, sometimes I sing anyway. But not lately. Lately I’m more inclined to weep.

When I get together with the other old women who are my close friends, we wonder aloud if we’re just getting negative in our dotage. Hasn’t the world been going to hell in a handbasket for generations? Is it really so much worse now? Think of our parents, who feared a nuclear Armageddon that hasn’t materialized. (Well, not yet.) Our grandparents who sent their sons–our fathers–into battle. And haven’t there always been wars and hunger and nasty political actors? Yes, of course. Always. Just not here, not lately. 

Entitlement has become a catch-word for all the ways in which some of us are more fortunate than others, and we (my friends and I, and most of you) have been born in a fortunate place, in a peaceful window of time. Our children, too. Our grandkids, maybe not. The peaceful and comfortable lives we first-world folks enjoy are not an entitlement, though we behave as though they were. And I don’t think it’s just because we’re old that we see that window closing. That’s what windows do. They open and close. We may be living in a time when they slam shut for a while. Maybe a long while. (I know, there’s a pill for this feeling.)

The second line of that hymn goes like this: I hear that clear though far-off song that hails a new creation. I’m not hearing that, but maybe it will come. If you hear it, I’m glad for you. There’s an implied faith in most hymns that I don’t really share. 

No, we’re not entitled to peace, comfort, and security. I am still enjoying all of those things though, so I can usually set distant troubles (along with the rumblings that suggest they’re approaching) far enough aside to allow my life to flow on. But not today. Because the biggest trouble of all—the one that will continue to threaten us whether or not there’s a two-state solution or Donald Trump wins or Ukraine falls to the Russians—is right outside my windows. It won’t leave me in peace. Except for a short spell a week or so ago, when temperatures dropped to their usual January levels, we are not having winter. We are having an endless March. I actually enjoy winter, but even those who don’t should not see this as a victory.

Now, I will water my plants and do my laundry because life does flow on of course, it’s Sunday, and that’s what I do on Sundays. Maybe I’ll take a walk in the slush.

I’ll try to be more upbeat next time, I promise.