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The month of March or in Gaia terms this period of time when the earth’s rotation continues its slight but inevitable tilt has been a period of dislike for this particular writer. Generally speaking it lasts anywhere from 30 to 45 days, though never a constant. Never a set amount of days, always an approximation.
After all, Nature’s schedule is so much unlike man’s. It does what it does when it does it. One season the weather can be more nasty than nice. The next season’s shift may waltz in in a mood of romance and be a love state of wonder and sublime beauty.
This is March. This is the one period of the year of the most unpredictable weather changes. A Doctor Jekyll of weather who may become a turncoat traitor and become a Mr. Hyde of storms, wind, harsh rain and possibly snow/ice with high snow drifts, without warning.
This state of weather is, and probably always shall be, a condition out of the control of humans. Though this writer abhors these conditions and outcomes, there is, to some extent a certain beauty and awesomeness contained within this modifying Gaian landscape of weather. It brings to bear the realization we are a small part of earth and subject to its constantly shifting state of evolution.
Unpredictably high winds, possible snow, hard icy rain, cold nights with on and off days of warmth, may arrive like a child’s tantrum and torment the northern hemisphere for an inordinate amount of days and then whimper away as if its outburst never occurred.
One season while living in New Mexico, March arrived like a Southwest tornado, never paid the rent but stayed a full 45 days. Each day howling its displeasure as if the residents of Los Alamos had ordered its incarceration to this mountainous village of scientists, intellectuals, menial workers and technicians of all stripes and flavors.
The wind pushed and pulled, screeched and howled, uprooting trees, ripping leaves of off branches and sending dust devils down every street, whirling and blowing and scattering twigs, leaves, dust, sheaves of paper and plastic bags across the landscape in torrents of terrible behavior.
Finally, in the second week of April as if a warrant of arrest had been issued by Gaia’s police of nature, March gave up its angry energy, blew its lungs out into the valleys below and slunk away quietly. No apology, no “I’m sorry for the havoc,” no announcements offering repayment or restitution or asking for forgiveness. Just a silence of no wind, no destructive storms of fury slamming its door on its way out of the season of tilting change.
It was probably the harshest March ever remembered. Now, here in the White Mountains of Arizona there have been some similar times, but nothing quite like that season. For which gratitude is always at the top of the list at this time.
Now April shows her face. Blooming and fruitful warm days touch the mountains, and maybe a touch of rain encourages the growth of all plants. Drab colors transform like cocoons into butterflies of bright greens, yellows, purples, reds, and blues.
A collective sigh of relief whooshes through the ponderosa as sunset cues the approaching darkness, and silence throws its blanket over our part of the world. Now we may find a clearing, look up at the universe and marvel at our place in this vast eternity of space.
Thank you. I am grateful for your visit.