Is That a Crocus I See?

I never have an easy time of putting Christmas away. There's a magic in the air from when the first Christmas doodad comes down from the attic until the very last pine needle is swept away. I've been sensitive to that magic every year since I was of preschool age, and even now at the half a century mark the incomparable joy of that wonder lives on in every bauble, every trinket, every last little bit of Christmas that remains in view.

It used to be our tradition that was passed down from my mother-in-law's family that it all came to a screeching halt on January 6th, the traditional commemoration of The Epiphany. On precisely that date, it all went away - back into its boxes and bags and assigned places under the rafters. Now, in middle age, we've grown lazy. The tree's still up though mostly unadorned, and I unplugged the outdoor lights only minutes ago when I went out to blow the snow off the walk. Colorful beads still hang from the double wide doorways between the rooms. Boxes of ornaments sit yet on the living room floor. And I'm in no hurry at all to be done with it. After all, as long as it remains so does a touch of the magic though muted now that the full splendor of the season is here no more. Soon, it will be gone, and the fullness of my annual winter doldrums will hit.

I don't know if I have genuine seasonal affective disorder. I function well enough, but I know that as soon as the last of Christmas is gone I'll sink into a bleak, slow moving state of self pity that'll last clear through the emergence of the first crocus and beyond. I've been this way since long before I got a scooter, but somehow riding seems to be a part of the equation now. Though I'd yearn for the coming of spring regardless of wanting to be out and about on two wheels, the ability to ride now seems to be more tied into my mood than any other single factor. I want it to be spring so I can ride. And lift my head. And smile from ear to ear. And laugh. And all that.