March in Chicago is a quiet, agonizing torture. Like waiting in line at the check-out and you are next in line, but no—the lady in front of you grabbed something without a price tag and you are still waiting, waiting, waiting. I admit that I harbored some serious resentment towards the woman on the radio this morning who was going on about the grey days, slushy streets and pelting sleet being officially over today—yay!, the first day of spring! Glancing down at the temperature on the dash of my car registering 17 degrees, I smashed off the radio with more vehemence than was necessary, stomping out into the bitter, windy, winter day. This Florida girl is running out of patience with this scene.
The Voice and I went to see Hubbard Street Dance/Alonzo King downtown to belatedly celebrate our anniversary. It was moving, disturbing and beautiful. The oldest dancer on stage probably wasn’t much past 30, which was a sobering thought for us as 30-somethings. A career in professional dance will only last about 20% of your life. Life is long (God willing), but the seasons within that life are varied and will never repeat. Lord, help me to live fully in every season you have me in. Let me not wish that I were in spring when there is still so much sledding, cocoa drinking and fire cuddling to do right now. Soon enough, Spring will dash in with her own flaws for me to complain about.