Today is the last day of Winter.  I wonder, will you miss it after it’s gone? The dazzling white blankets of snow, the glassy surfaces of frozen ponds and creeks, the skeleton trees; sledding and building snow forts, then curling up by the fire.  Or are you finished with winter, impatient for spring to arrive with its bursting blooms, and emerald lawns, fresh rains and longer days and baseball games?

In his poem The Wheel, William Butler Yeats observes how restless we are, rarely satisfied with the season we’re in:  

Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter’s best of all;
And after that there’s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come —
Nor know what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.

It’s the gnawing discontent that says another season—the next one—is always better than the one we’ve got.

But Mark Twain offers a different perspective: “I think that to one in sympathy with nature, each season, in turn, seems the loveliest.”

Each season, in turn….  Today is the last day of Winter.  It is not yet Spring’s turn.   So maybe try letting Winter be the loveliest season, for just one more day.

And have a wonderful day.