Rainy Days and Mondays...

No sooner did I give in to the temptation to wax rhapsodic about the arrival of spring, than the Powers That Be contrived to dash that notion by sending the worst storm of the winter to darken our skies, whip us with gale force winds and soak us with buckets of cold rain. It poured and blew for sixteen hours straight. My yard is a quagmire. My garden books are staring at me hopelessly from the bookshelves; I had not quite whipped up the moxie to open them yet. And now they know they’re going to sit idle until the sun comes out again. Whenever that might be. July?

I hate traitorous weather. Beautiful as spring eventually is in the Pacific Northwest, it is also maddeningly shy and capricious. The days get longer and longer, and the sun, when it manages to fight its way through the storm clouds, shows promise of real warmth. But the net effect of the days lengthening toward the summer solstice is that we get more hours to sit indoors and scowl at the constant parade of clouds and squalls outside the window. As far as I’m concerned, if the weather is going to be crappy, it might as well be dark, too.

We are in a mood, aren’t we? Without a more engaging activity to occupy my mind, my moods mirror the weather, especially this late in the rainy season. A fine day will renew my vigor and send my spirit soaring. Crappy weather whacks me right out of the sky and plunks me, pouting, into my recliner. From which I will rise now and then, to pace from room to room, growling, casting evil eyes at the force outside the windows that keeps me caged inside.

I am DONE with winter. Make with the Spring, already.