20190321.0430

Spring has sprung at last in my part of the world, and it seems the local flora and fauna are rising to greet it. They have been for a while, in fact, with the motion of the world through the local cosmos making little impression upon the buck that, in the words of the old song, farts while a cuckoo makes its own melodies. The wildflowers have begun to bloom, bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes joining others in pushing through the many greens of the spreading grasses to dye the roadsides and pastures in brilliant colors that match the goldening sunrise skies and the reddening sunsets. The days are lengthening noticeably, and I feel the call to be outside more, both while I am at work and in the hours after, when I am at home and the sky is still light.
It is strange that, indoorsman that I am, I would long to spend each night sitting beside a fire under the darkening sky. I have worked hard to make my inside spaces comfortable for me, familiar and easy. I have succeeded in it, for the most part; I would like fancier chairs than I have, chairs that might admit of me leaning back in them with a bit more support for my head and neck than those I have at present do. But my places fit around me--and I in them--through long work to make them do so, and I am comfortable in them. For the most part, anyway.
That "most part" seems to apply less now, though. I am not so old as not to feel the call of spring upon me. I am not so withered inwardly as to have no sap rise to meet the regreening of the part of the world I call home. And if I am mired in the mud, that does not mean I cannot look around me with appreciation. I do so, even if that appreciation becomes tinged with longing for what I know well I am not fit to have. Because I am an indoorsman, and I do not have the skills or experience that allow me to understand what I see and value it as it ought to be valued, save only feebly and in sufficient quantity as to let me know that there is much I am missing. At this point, I would be ashamed to go out and flail about ineptly.
Such shame dogs me in many pursuits; there is much I do not venture to do because I know that I would do it badly, and that I would likely do it badly no matter the amount of practice I might put in. I know, too, that I cannot give it the practice it deserves or demands, since I have other concerns to which I must attend each day. So, rather than venture where I know I am inept, I remain in place, where I am less frequently inept, if more annoyingly when I am. But I do like how it looks when I look outside.