February 1st. Second grade in Miss Smith's classroom. We knew that when we returned to school the following day, we would be wiser: continue donning our winter coats, or the prophetic knowing that the trees outside our classroom window would soon be covered with tiny buds.
My 7 year-old heart fluttered as I thought of the upcoming change of seasons. Just 6 small weeks. That's 42 days before a change is a'coming. That's less than 2 months. I went to bed that night filled with hope and joyful expectation. I anticipated wearing skirts without stockings and trading my coat for a Spring sweater. The rate of change was directly linked to a groundhog, and so I prayed that he would predict an early Spring.
Don't ask me what the outcome was. I live on the East coast, and Phil NEVER sees his freakin' shadow (okay, maybe ONCE every 12 years or so.)
Bottom line: I can choose to lay my head on my pillow every night and relive the disappointments of the day over and over and over again, and pass out from mental/emotional exhaustion (or too many gin & tonics), or I can close my eyes and be filled with the hope and joyful expectation of seeing another day.
I would rather suffer the heart flutters of that 7-year old than the heart palpitations of the 48-year old me.
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