Jumping into Spring by Temple Hogan
Trees wave their tender new leaves, birds dart around as if reacquainting themselves after a winter in Florida or further South. Plants timidly stick their heads above ground. Soft bellied middle-aged suburbanites poke their heads out their doors regretfully. No more spending a snowy day snuggled before the fire with the television or computer on. No more indulging on big bowls of hot home made soup and bread. No more popcorn evenings.
Spring is nice, but with it comes all sorts of responsibilities. We have to rake the flower beds and mow the grass and if you're lucky enough to live on a lake, rebuild the sea wall and put out the dock and have the boat delivered from storage. You have to clean away the lazy comfort of winter hazed windows and dusty corners, especially in your mind. You have to 'unhibernate'.
You have to finish that book that you've told yourself all winter you were brainstorming in your head. Yeah, right!
So the moment has come! No more procrastination. You plant yourself in front of the computer, not to play word with your friends, but to work! You reread what you've started, fearful it's totally all bad and are surprised and gratified that some of it's salvageable. Should be a snap to get it finished, but you have patio furniture to clean, flower pots to plant, a garden to rototiller and vegetables to put in and all of it has to be done now!
You do it all, because you're still practicing to be a super woman. You make gallons of potato salad because your husband loves yours best, you boil dozens of ears of corn, help grandkids roast a million marshmallows, (you're the 'smores queen of the neighborhood), grill hundreds of brats, skewer the same number of hot dogs, (a black greasey cloud rises from our back yard daily), and wash enough beach towels every day that could service a spa. And it all started with spring!
You have another book due in four months. You're not going to procrastinate, you tell yourself. You're not going to let anything distract you. You're getting ahead of the game, but at the end of spring and summer, when people pack up their clean beach towels and return to their peaceful abodes, you collapse in your patio chair, place your feet on another, hook your arms over the chair arms to hold you in place and stare out at the world with a blank gaze and drool running down your chin. You long for winter. Maybe by spring you'll be able to write again. Maybe not.