It's a good thing I got the shopping done on Friday so I didn't have to go out into the afternoon heat. Instead I was able to stay in the relatively cool house and catch up on my reading. But it was not easy to concentrate. Lately I've been visited by a vernal restlessness which pulls my thoughts one way and another, so that I daydream and then forget what I was dreaming about. The discontent never takes a shape that can be captured in words, and my inability to make any written record simply adds to the discontent.
I keep thinking I should be able to write something about it, but I never do more than dabble at the edges of an undefinable vastness. It leaves me feeling as last night's paltry sunset did, let down and unfulfilled, but unlike the failed sunset it feels like it is my own failure. From experience I know that the feelings will pass eventually, but in the meantime I wander about dazed, trying to think of a way to fix it before it has run its course. I never have, and probably never will. It's spring's psychological equivalent of pollen.
Spring. I sneeze, I muddle, I maunder, I mope. All I can do is remind myself that, though spring has its price, at least the torrid summer isn't here yet. And I have a patch of splendid lupines.
To See the Fields and the River
by Fernando Pessoa
To see the fields and the river
It isn't enough to open the window.
To see the trees and the flowers
It isn't enough not to be blind.
It is also necessary to have no philosophy.
With philosophy, there are no trees, just ideas.
There is only each one of us, like a cave.
There is only a shut window, and the whole world outside,
And a dream of what could be seen if the window were opened,
Which is never what is seen when the window is opened.