Two winds, and March

Last night there were two winds, and we were like Janus, facing two directions. One came from winter, bitter and cold and driving. The other so intoxicatingly warm, gentle - almost humid. It was a May breeze, ahead of April and March all at once. We must have been on the edge of a front, though I felt on the edge of time itself.

It seems like a sneaking, tripping allowance, an indulgence. A great gasp of YES when weather and time stand firmly in two places at once. This is the truth of it, always, but to be so bold about it is startling and exciting. Oh yes, contradiction! To stand outside of the linear, to dwell in the great embracing paradox!

It stops the story, at any rate. The temptation to categorize and narrate, in order that we understand ourselves more exactly and logically. “It is winter, still, just below freezing but soon the buds will swell.” But here there are leaves on the shrubs, and there on the north side the ground is still covered in ice. My mother saw the redwing blackbirds, but jays still call like they own the place.

I suppose the greater trajectory is still linear, overall, and these patterns are reassuring (the fact that it’s all shifting to ‘sooner’ and ‘warmer’ is alarming, indeed). They provide the solid ground, the background landmarks by which we measure our progress. We locate ourselves through the temporal, meteorological myths and memories of our landscapes.

But ‘both at once’ is precious, and perhaps that’s the greatest gift of March, the infamously fickle month. It’s not fickle, though, it’s honest. It’s bitter and gentle and warm and wet and windy and freezing. There are snowbirds and robins and flowers and ice storms. And on walks with two winds I don’t feel so out of place, myself.