Weather bitching. The Equinox was 4 days ago. We reached 80 F degrees or near enough twice this last week. Mist at night, but no rain; reservoirs are low.
I want rain, and I want a lot of it. Now. If this turns out to be one of those once-a-century drought years that we’ve had about 3 of in the past decade in these parts, I shall be seriously displeased. (Just as a meteorological question — is it worse for the winter to be mild and dry or cold and dry, from the POV of plants, animals, soil structure, etc.?)
The Virginia Bluebells are making buds. I’ve never known them to do so quite this early, whereas the little bulbous anemones, which usually precede them are just making buds too. The forsythia is gorgeous. The species crocuses came and went so fast I barely saw them, but the modest clutches of hyacinths we have here and there look particularly robust. The “primitive azalea”, as Mama used to refer to it, is in flower. The goddess only knows what this year will be like.
Oneself, and how to improve it. I would like an infusion of confidence and juice from some outside source, possibly to be delivered on the same day as the rain (see above). I have the image in my head of myself organizing my days in a creative, flowing, adaptable, cheerful, yet rational way, like a bustling Victorian authoress, or the kind of Oxford Fellow who has “regular habits” and gets a tremendous amount of work done in some absorbing field.
I don’t know if that vision is compatible with my kind of creative ability, such as it is. I’m your basic Global Processer: I stink at sequencing. After much repetition of a given task-set (like cleaning up the kitchen after supper every night), I eventually evolve a work routine that would make some sense to a time-and-motion analyst. But then the brain goes mushy for one reason or another, like, “ooo, it’s spring”, and good-bye sequence.
And those authoresses and Oxonians had Help. On these premises, the Help, c’est moi.