I’m going to warn you right up front that this particular post is full of randomness. Apologies and strong cautionary advice to look away immediately if you’re not fascinated by or tolerant of incoherence. Seriously.
First, it’s Robert Frost’s birthday, the poet who penned the oft-of-late repeated phrase “…and miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep.” Repeatedly muttering that even as I take the time to write this, thank you Mr. Frost, and happy birthday. My miles are no doubt more of the first world variety than those of others and so I do try not to whine incessantly about them. But today? Today I’m allowing myself a hare-brained rant.
Second, since moving here in July 2006 I’ve noticed a peculiar thing about the month of March. It has nothing to do with that other madness out of which I opt in its entirety: I’m told it has something to do with basketball? No, this is more of a music-related animal. I thought when Kate had her piano jury in the second weekend instead of at the last of the month that this might be a lighter year but, sadly, it isn’t. School concerts and an upcoming competition have conspired to continue the new tradition, if not to amp it up considerably, so much so that we will have been to Eastman 7 out of 7 days this week. And twice on Saturday. I may begin knitting with the hair I’m pulling out of my own head before it’s done. Speaking of madness.
Third, remember my hope-of-spring post? Not even a week later, Wednesday brought a day of slippery snow that nearly did us in on our imperiled way to (you guessed it) Eastman that afternoon, and then in its carelessness left behind a long return to January temperatures. The freezing weather is with us well into next week. Just when I thought it might be safe to sow carrot and beet seeds in the now snowbound beds. Crazy weather but that’s March here. Raises hope and then makes you look stark raving mad for starting up the allergy meds while snow still blankets the buds.
Finally, the miles and miles to go before I sleep? So much writing and book inventorying and finance figuring to do for class and work that I don’t know where to begin. And each day is so chopped up with household tasks and chauffeur duties that I’m forced to flit from chore to chore and can’t go deeply into anything substantial. But at about 3 a.m.? I’m full of ideas and no sleep. If the house wasn’t so cold and if I was sure I wouldn’t wake everyone else up, I’d ignore my exhaustion and throw the next day to the wind just to get one thing done! But I fear that wouldn’t end well. Meshugas rarely does.