This May be the best month of all
(Originally published May 2023)
In his 1922 poem “The Waste Land,” T.S. Eliot said—if I recall correctly—“April is the cruellest month / But May is, like, amazing.” Boy, was he right.
It’s the time of year when I transform into an exuberant, sociable, outdoorsy person.
My default persona is fall/winter me. I like to shuffle around in cumbersome layers and thick socks, delighting in all the things that make the colder months appealing: dark evenings, a cozy heat source, homemade comfort foods, heavy blankets, and, best of all, staying home.
But now, rather than curl up into a compact afghan-wrapped ball on the couch, I can’t sit still for five minutes. On a typical morning in May, I wake at sunup, look at the time and shove Mark.
“Life is so good, I’m insufferable.”
“How can it be 5:13 already!? We’re burning daylight. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
Mark does not go. But I launch into a brisk set of bedside calisthenics, counting off my jumping jacks with a “one, two, three, ONE!” and so on, until he throws his pillow at me or I pull a calf muscle, whichever comes first.
Fully oxygenated, I put on the coffee and immediately head outside to do chores. These days, that means feeding and watering an additional assortment of fowl and livestock. And, of course, taking extra time to stop and smell the lilacs and listen to the birds.
When the bird ID on my phone tells me the melodious trill from high in the treetops comes from a “warbling vireo”—a creature I can hear but not see—I have to take an extra tour around the yard in the hopes of finally spotting it.
The crisp morning air invigorates me, and by the time I return to the kitchen, I’m brimming with goodwill toward the world. Mark has come downstairs, and I find him slumped half-asleep at the table, mug in hand, staring bleary-eyed into the middle distance.
I kiss him on top of the head as I twirl past and say, “Why do we even need caffeine when we have nature to energize us?”
Life is so good, I’m insufferable.
My mood continues this way for weeks, annoying friends, relatives and retail employees alike. The days feel endless, both in terms of sunlight and possibility.
I no longer dare slip into PJs at 6 p.m.; what if we decide to go out for creemees? I want to be able to squeeze opportunity out of every last minute before dark.
One of the biggest changes from winter me to summer me—besides my expanded capacity to tolerate other humans—is how much time I spend outdoors. In the winter, you won’t find me braving the elements if I can help it. (Braving, in general, is something I avoid.)
But in the warmer months, there’s too much to do. Slathered in sunscreen, I fill my free time with gardening, walking in the woods, and grilling out on the deck. Lazing around indoors isn’t an option; the weather is too beautiful, and I have things to accomplish.
Even when I’m not attempting to set a world record for Most Items Crossed Off an Outside To-Do List in One Day, I can’t get enough of the fresh air and sunshine. The breeze caresses my skin. Flowers bloom all around me. Birdsong fills the trees. I dance around the yard smiling and inhaling like the star of a laundry detergent commercial.
Unfortunately, I have seen enough Mays to know that this joie de vivre will subside in a few weeks. Eventually, I will tire, physically and mentally, of the relentless daylight and daily grind of garden and barn chores.
The weather will get hot. The humidity will spike. Weeds will overtake my flowers. Coordinated mosquito attacks will make sitting outside a frantic exercise in neck slapping and ankle scratching.
Faintly, above the cacophony of the songbirds—who seriously will not give it a rest for five minutes—I’ll hear the siren song of the couch. My knitting basket, ignored all these weeks, will cry softly in the corner. They miss me!
I don’t remember the rest of “The Waste Land,” so I don’t know what T.S. Eliot said about July.
Probably something along the lines of “Summer comes as respite from the darker days / But it’s enough already.”
