April 19th, 2015

caillebotte_man at his window


The lupines have done better than I'd expected them to. Their long clusters of small blue blossoms now rise from their weedy green bed and wave slowly in the afternoon breezes. In the mornings, when the light is behind them, their color is darker, but it lightens as the sun comes around to flood their western faces. That's when I most enjoy seeing them, but today I didn't spend much time looking at them as the afternoon grew uncomfortably warm. I waited until evening when the cooling breeze arose and the scattered swaths of cloud began turning pink. By then the flowers had darkened again and were slipping into the obscurity of night. But the sunset, at least, made up for yesterdays disappointing performance.

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.

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