Road Kill and Funny Hats

     Earlier this month, on my way to school one morning (it was more like every morning), I was lamenting over everything that was happening in my life, and in the lives of the people around me - family, friends, our community.  I was getting ready to hit that magic point; teetering on full-blown overwhelmed, fighting back tears over the magnitude of decisions that needed to be made, and the possible outcomes that could come from those decisions.
     My heart was breaking for those I couldn't be present with; not that I had any special knowledge, insights, or grand solutions to offer; no, I had nothing to offer but myself.  And I couldn't even do that.  Which led to aggravation at the sudden imposition my school work was becoming.
     I know myself well enough to know that these were dangerous waters to be treading in... rather than stretch myself or adapt, I'd just as soon be rid of the imposition.  Be done with it.  Quit school.  Again.  And I could very easily see myself making (and justifying) the excuse that "my relationships with others are more important".  (This is part of my suck, and I know this.)
   
     Driving down the road, there was a dead raccoon on the side of the road, about a foot off the edge of the asphalt.  He was flat on his back with his head turned toward oncoming traffic, as if he was watching the cars go by.  He looked very cartoonish, back legs straight behind him, front legs laid at his sides like arms, his tail whipping in the currents created by every passing vehicle.
     I seriously felt like this raccoon looked.  Bowled over, knocked out.
     February makes me feel like road kill.  Caught in the headlights, frozen, and then, WHAM!

     I spent the next few miles relating to this caricature, distracted enough by it that I didn't notice anything else, nor could if I wanted to.
   
     Until the Volkswagen.
     It was in front of me as I arrived at the next intersection; both of us in the left turn lane.  Nothing spectacular, a newer style Bug; no external adornments, no flashy colors, just a simple, grey Bug.
     Movement in the back windshield caught my eye; a dog: a fluffy white poodle.
     Maybe it was dancing, maybe it didn't like riding in the car, maybe it was unbelievably excited about the world it was seeing outside the box it was trapped in.  Never the less, this dog pinged back and forth between windows in a three second racetrack, over and over and over.  I followed his chariot all the way to the next intersection.

     (Have you ever had one of those moments where you can actually see the atmosphere around you changing?  This was one of those moments for me.)

     The determination of this poodle in car beside me held me captive, until I moved my eyes from the activity in the back of the car, to the activity in the front of the car.
     The driver was singing.  Her head was bobbing, exaggerated because of the mood-changing hat she wore.  This hat was a bowler-type, and purple.  And covered with the most vibrant colored flowers I'd seen in months. Huge, gaudy, floppy flowers that bobbed and jiggled with the motions of her singing and car-dancing.  The silliness of the scene overcame me.
     I suddenly forgot all else.  There was nothing else happening in the entire world at that moment, except this woman singing, the flowers on her hat swirling in rhythm, her hands flying to emphasize certain words, and her dog dancing in the back seat.
     Tensions drained in a moment so quick that the weightlessness of the resulting peace was dizzying; physically altering those few seconds of my existence.  I couldn't help but laugh out of sheer joy.

     Since then, the raccoon on the side of the road has disappeared.  I don't know if some magical road-kill-clean-up-crew came through and disposed of his body, or if, more than likely, he became lunch for something else.  I'd like to think, however morbidly, he became lunch, because then there would at least be some purpose to his untimely demise.  Just like I'd like to think there's some sort of purpose for all the shit sammiches February keeps packing in my lunch.

     Then Lent shows up.  Preparation time; time to give something up.  I don't know if I can do it this year, give up something else.  I don't know if there's anything left to give.
     The usual self-sacrificing messages aren't bombarding me this year, thank God; it's something else.  It's OK.
     It's OK that I'm overwhelmed and don't know which end is up.
     It's OK that I can't even admit I need help, or that I don't know how to ask for it.
     It's OK  that I'm not perfect.
     It's OK that I'm human.

     Not that I can revel in these confessions, but I can take some solace in the fact that the answer for them and to them doesn't have to come from me.  I don't have to search for the answers, nor do I have to produce them.  There's a huge relief in being reminded of that, of understanding that; almost makes me want to put on a funny hat and sing like there's no tomorrow.

     On the downward slope, making my way out of this month, I'm learning that it's okay to feel like road kill.  That when we're bowled over, and feeling crushed by life, there's always someone with a funny hat; so unexpected, so disarming, that all we can do is laugh, or we might break into the dust we came from.
     And maybe, just maybe, it will remove the immense weight of life from our shoulders, even if it's just for a few minutes.
   

February

Spring never seems as far away as it does in February.
    
     February, it seems, is a month of extremes.  Teasing warm days followed by bone-chilling frost and wind.  Quiet health and ravishing sickness.  The days are starting to extend, but not nearly as much as is needed.   Certain times of the day seem to stretch out space;  the yard seems particularly empty, and in its emptiness, it appears so much bigger.  Tricks of the eyes, or the senses, or the sun herself, I don't know.  A smaller calendar, fewer days, yet a constant increase in the number of obligations.
     February always seems to be a month of adversity, a month that runs out of days before it can come up with any conclusions or offer any solutions.  Just as abrupt as the end of this month, so too the disappearance of all that ails in February.
   
     Maybe it's just the hope that comes with March;  a new season just around the corner,  with the promise of more time trapped inside the extending hours of sunlight. 
     It could be the hope that arrives on the heels of the return of color, the putting-away of the death-garb of winter.  The undertones of the next holiday, Easter; something sweet, the promise of new life, the swarm of pastels, and something in the air that tastes like young sounds.

     By February, every blanketed morning sky is just another grim reminder of winter.  'When will it end' seems to never end, lasting far longer than any other time of year.
     The shortness and the busyness always leaves me breathless.  It's almost like I'm the one who has to do all the work to bring forth spring, and when spring finally decides to show her face, I can relax.

     It could be a monstrous combination of all these things.   Or it could just be that I need a nap.