It's February already, and almost halfway through this funny month of differing days. I'm sitting at a coffee shop in the hills far from home thinking about spring coming. Last week we saw a few days of sun and as much as I expound to hate the heat, the warmth on my skin felt good. It felt fresh and new and exciting. It felt like something thick and heavy had been lifted and it brought a sense of hope, a sense of faith in the goodness and the transformative power of a season's change. One of my customers who's garden is the stuff Better Homes and Gardens magazine spreads are made of told me of some sort of bulbs coming up in his garden. Around town, little spots of green can be seen poking out through the soil, ready to brave another year. I have retired my wool jackets for the season mostly and purchase a lovely lightweight grey number than just might be one of my favorite jackets ever a few weeks back. So I will try to relish this time. These few months when every day's weather is a suprise sometimes even from hour to hour, and not try to think about the depression that is sure to follow when the weather goes from cool and sunny to just plain hot. Hot and sticky. Last summer had some hot, most miserable days and I spent several nights sitting in a bathtub of cold water trying like hell, and in vein, to cool off even just a bit.


The thought of days like these make me want to move north somewhere, anywhere. I don't remember Portland ever being humid before and last year it just seemed to feel sticky most of the time. Gone were the 75 degree days of my childhood, to be replaced by temperatures over ninety on many days, humidity dripping heavily in the air. In any event, here I sit in my new grey jacket enjoying a hot americano and looking out the window at little bursts of pink popping up on the tips  of tree branches across the street. Yes, today, I will just try to look out the window at today and not worry about last year or the coming summer or anything of the sort. Instead I will focus on this exact moment as it happens, on the dogs walking by outside, the folky Natalie Merchant song I've never heard creeping from the speaker above me, the heat radiating from the fireplace next to me, and the quiet, calm company of a room full of strangers. May you take some time to do the same.


Namaste.