It’s a funny old month, February. Usually, it’s the worst month of winter—the coldest, the wettest, and the most miserable. The month when mountains are deeply covered in snow and a north wind is busy blasting through gaps in doors and windows, biting at all body parts not continually wrapped in many layers of clothing—layers necessary whether we’re outdoors or not.
In order to complete a self-imposed challenge of swimming at least once every month of the year, I dread February and swither: what’s worse—failing the mission or succumbing to the cold water and subsequent chill wind on wet skin? Not so tough this year with the gracious month we’re blessed with. I had the cheek, the ingratitude even, some days ago, to mention that the sun was too hot as I shifted into the shade. In February? It goes without saying then that a swim was not only possible but pretty much essential given our good fortune. Still… I’m no great lover of cold—avoid it if at all possible. No real misapprehensions then; the snow-capped mountain tops were a pretty good clue as to what lay ahead. And yes, the water immediately confirmed that it is still winter as icy prickles raced across my skin. After a not unbearable time, an inner warmth arose, such pleasure, all alone moving through a calm turquoise sea with blue sky and sunshine… divine.
I might have ignored the opportunity had it not been for the little bird, the insistent little bird, that tap-tap-tapped on my bedroom shutters the other day. I imagine it was alerting me to the definite signs of spring. Initially, I had no idea what the noise was, but once coffee was made and shutters open, again came the tapping, and there was the bird at the window. Not trying to get in, after all—what could I offer? Besides, there are boundless natural possibilities for nest building all around where I live. I reckon it was a quick scolding for not redressing my previous post where all focus was on cold, hailstones, and such miseries of winter. There was also a tone in the chirping suggesting I get myself going and get outdoors. Which is what I did, swim gear tucked under my arm.
Upon returning home, the garden looked to have spontaneously sprouted a higher, thicker, greener, more prolific array of unwelcome foliage… especially nettles. Nettles at almost 1 meter high are not welcome, especially as they all grow over the fragile roses that really struggle… and usually die.
Next on the annual list is to succeed in having beautiful roses in bloom around the house. The nettles and their pals—equally unwelcome—can go, will go, if my efforts remain consistent. Then I’ll go get myself a load of decent manure from the friendly farmer up the road; apparently, roses will be ecstatically producing flowers if I do this. Time, alone, will tell…
As a rainy week approaches, I guess I’ll be pulling out more of those rapidly growing nettles again fairly soon, but across the countryside, welcome colorful growth is abundant. Wild giant fennel, spreads of chamomile, bright red anemones, massive patches of buttercup yellow, trees of delicate pink almond blossom—all herald in the lengthy dynamic spring. And the still dowdy Oleander—it’s not their time to shine—have dusty-fluffy seed pods bursting open, catapulting miniature parachutists out into the breeze, ensuring that future generations of those early summer flowering beauties will continue to brighten up roadsides and gullies.
Torrential rain, wild seas, and astonishing lightning storms began as I put the finishing touches to this post… The nettles are going to be loving it, less so the roses. And as we head towards the end of February, these warmer currents will remove snow as quickly as it fell some weeks ago; how quickly everything changes around here. I look forward to warmer swim opportunities!