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February is the month of violets- surging from the ground in sporadic mounds and clusters; some are scattered, standing on their own, apart from the others. The violets bloom their bright purple-blue on short stems that float above or nestle in the grass. They always startle me with their suddenness. One day they will appear, quietly, as though they were just waiting for their opportunity. And soon, they will be gone again, as if they never were, leaving behind naught but the promise of return.

This is also the time of the February fake-out. Right now it seems sunny and warm- decidedly like Spring. This will last just long enough to convince the skeptics and then Winter will come rushing back in its cold, violent fury.

But I like Winter.

As a child I liked Summer best; the free time away from school, the swimming, the endless golden days. Then I grew to care for Spring and its gentle burgeoning; the new leaves and flowers sprouting, the mild weather. Autumn is glorious and has won my heart forever; its cooling days, the glorious hues, the taste of harvest and contentment on the wind. But lately, I have grown to love Winter also.

I love its moody cloud-cover, its barren, windswept, leaf-littered walkways. I love its stripped trees silhouetted against a pale, or a darkening sky. I love the storms and the music of wind and rain.

All of my observations, of course, are based on my own area. Here, we have long, blazing summers and wet winters. Our Spring is brief and our Fall does not seem to linger long enough. We rarely get snow, though we have extremes in other forms. Here I can see mountains on three sides, on a clear day. There are trees and open spaces still, though the small city is growing. A river cuts a path through the valley and the changing seasons are visible.

It’s amazing the connections a person can feel with the place they feel is home. That place, with all its foibles and imperfections, somehow works its way into them, becoming part of who they are. There are many places I would like to travel to and many lands that I would like to see. There may even be other delightful places I’ve yet to discover that I would like to live. However, there will always be something familiar about this place and its home-like-ness; something to the comfort of its seasons.

I’m looking for the little things; the subtle changefulness, the delicate occurrence. The happenings of everyday can cause me to develop a state of melancholy in monotony, but observing the unsung variations to each day will help me to keep perspective and to remember that each day is new, even if it is just another Thursday.

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