It's that time of year. March is this pot hole in the road of life; a seriously deep axle breaker on a seemingly endless stretch of rough, blah, bleak and ugh. At least that's the case here in the heart of Canada! And if you live here, or have visited Winnipeg in the spring, your teeth and bones will ache at the memory of our pitted and pocked streets and roads!
My dearest FC calls March "high recall time. "Why "high recall?" Well, it seems like this is the time of year when a lot of people pass on. Personally, I lost both my Dad and my young niece in March, and it seems appropriate somehow, that this month is devoid of beauty - a sullen, slow-moving lunk, it lurks and sulks, unable to express any joy and threatening to steal our moments of happiness. This year March has been marked by the death of Canadian folk music icon, Stompin' Tom Connors - his honesty and kindness and patriotism always touched my heart. He was like this uncle, a favourite that could always make you see the bright side of things, and who would steer you toward what really mattered in life. A good man.
A dreamer, I get through March by over-compensating, by stoking the brilliant coloured fires of my fantasy world. I am restless, yet drowsy; thirsty for the outdoors, and yet languid; lounging like I am hospitalized. Bright colour, new tastes and textures; the sensory and the sensual - these are my cure; my self-prescribed course of treatment. My senses are all set on high to filter every molecule of goodness and beauty out of the stark, cold, grey landscape of mourning. My mind is jumping, antsy, sparking -I am building, making plans; analyzing - I can close my eyes and smell the snow melting and I hear the first rain storm rumbling in the distance. I have wings, I am rising, I am dancing on the ashes of March - bright brush strokes of azure, pink, violet.
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