The Time of the Season?

I am a creature of seasonal habit, but the seasons are changing. I really want to go and dig in the garden, but, because of the constant rain, the ground is too wet. The air is also too cold to even consider planting the cucumbers and tomatoes that would normally be happy to be growing outside. There are tomatoes on the window sill, which, during a spurt of hopefulness, I started a few weeks ago. Instead of working in the garden I have been spending time "weeding" through PDF files that can benefit from a little care.

But everything I have experienced during my sixty-one (and a few days--I turned sixty a few days ago) revolutions of the earth is off. The seasonal things that we, as residents of particular areas on our particular planet, have been able to trust are no longer trustworthy.

I used to feel creative in April and May. It's a time when the concert "season" comes to a close, and a time when the music I am practicing and rehearsing is no longer always running through my mind, leaving an empty spot in my head for original musical thoughts.

This "writing season" I have ideas for pieces to write, but I do not have any original musical thoughts. None. Zilch.

I could blame it on the lack of lively and appropriate birdsong outside my window. I could blame it on lack of the usual stimulation I get from things that are growing. I could blame it on not being able to dig in the garden. I could blame it on the underlying noise of unfairness that disproportionately invades the airwaves.

That noise seems to seep into everything.

If I do "find" some original music in the air through that noise, I can't imagine that it will be very pretty.


. . . Update a few hours later (and with a little help from Michael)