Spring is in March, summer starts in June, the winds change autumnal in September and it certainly is winter-like in December. At least it was in Pennsylvania where I was raised. It’s comforting when things generally happen when they are supposed to—you can often count on a white Christmas, egg-hunt-friendly weather is almost guaranteed for Easter and the potato salad will certainly go bad in the oppressive heat at Independence Day barbeques. I did not particularly like winter as a child since I hated being cold, the trees were bare and the snow by the side of the road was perpetually dark gray. It seemed to go on forever (“forever” to be said in a disgusted tone, emphatic stress on the “ev” syllable). Of course that wasn’t the case, and in comparison to the many other places I’ve lived, winter was pretty much the length as promised by the equinoxes and solstices. In Maine, it is an entirely different story. In Maine, winter actually almost does go on forever (“forever” to be said neutrally, without emphasis since it is merely a fact of life up here…and a fact of life which keeps this state traffic-free for 9 out of 12 months).
I’ve lived in Maine for almost 10 years—a fact that was very surprising to me when I just counted the years out on my fingers. It still seems like I’m a newcomer. I believe the rule is that your parents have to be born in Maine for you to be considered a Mainer, but only actually Mainers can look at the rulebook so I’m not sure. Which leaves my youngest son out even though he’s been here since he was 5 months old and it’s all he knows. I should ask him whether or not he considers himself a Mainer. I digress—the real topic today is the rhythm of the year. And this year, I feel completely out of sync. Even by Maine standards.
The first 6 years in Maine were spent in a house underneath tall pine trees on a secondary dune. It only took about 2 turns through the wheel of the year to be able to detect and anticipate the subtle annual changes in landscape. The snow melted in late March early April, and then the leaves of the Canadian Mayflower pushed up through the soft layer of brown needles. The tiny white Starflowers quietly came and went in time for the fragrant Lilacs and Lilly-of-the-Valley to take command of spring. Spring, which in Maine lasts for about a day in the early part of June and then unceremoniously dumps you into summer. Short but sweet, summer in Maine is worth the wait. In late August/early September, autumn gives a preview of gusty cool winds and chases the tourists away (not that we don’t enjoy the company in the summer). It is always sad to see the first tree start to change color but once in the middle of autumn it is hard not to embrace the crispness and vibrancy until the snow returns and blankets everything. But winter in Maine is not dreary, the snow by the side of the road does not took as dirty as in Pennsylvania mostly because it is consistently laying a fresh coat.
It snowed on Halloween, it snowed right before Thanksgiving, but there was barely any snow for Christmas. Not that snow controls everything, but there is something very “off” about this year. Instead of feeling quiet and introspective, I’ve already got spring fever. I’m antsy. I want to get moving. I’m trying to embrace all that winter has to offer, but it isn’t coming naturally this year. It is concerning that my one day of spring will arrive without adequate preparation; that the energy of summer won’t be appreciated without first fully experiencing the stillness of winter.
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