May

May is the best month of the year in New England. Bar none.

It is stunning the beauty and relief that May delivers. Because May delivers.

Of course, this being New England, May will still fuck with you - that's what New England does. Too much rain here, ridiculously low temperatures there. That's why when warm weather comes around, we all scramble like cockroaches suddenly exposed to light. Desperately trying to soak it up before we are suddenly sliding off the road in an ice storm.

In general, though, May is a kind and beautiful month. So many mornings this month I put my book down for a moment to look through the French doors that lead to our screened-in porch. The sunshine early on is at a creative angle, and exquisitely illuminates the green leaves that surround me. Sometimes the leaves are rustling in a slight breeze. If I can hear the breeze or hear the leaves rustling, even better. The sun improves the appearance of anything it touches and I am deeply appreciative.

The birds sing as if they are being conducted. I am so tuned in to their soothing sounds lo these past few years. They comfort me. Our hummingbird feeder is a popular place and I love to watch those tiny little birds gratefully drinking from the gift that Carol provides them.

The cats are in heaven; they live on the porch this time of year. But May, particularly, breathes life into their little lungs because they have been shut in all winter. They are so alive, so attentive, so playful, so content. It makes me happy to see them so happy.

I feel alive in May. Generally I am a dead man walking. But May kicks me in the ass and assaults my senses to the point where I have no choice but to raise my head out of the suffocating fear and loathing that sustains me, to actually engage with life. To see it, feel it, marvel at the natural joy that it can inspire.

Dig it, baby.