April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
“The Wasteland” by T.S. Eliot
April can be a cruel month. The days, finally long enough again, make me feel
invincible, like I can do anything. Until I do too much, and sit still the next day, mindlessly letting YouTube grow roots into my brain.
The first quarter is over, and I wonder what in the hell have I done. It’s an illusion, of course. I’ve worked on my book nearly every day, pages of research to show for it. Yet when I go to write something in the manuscript, I realize I haven’t actually written anything since January. I’m dismayed, but the words shoot from my subconscious like crocus spouts. Green and fresh and not yet in full flower, but holding a lot of promise. Enough promise to make me forget the fallow months of February and March.
The second quarter stretches before me. There’s so much to do, it scares me and makes me want to go back into dormancy, under a fleece blanket somewhere. But that spring energy is still pushing me, pushing me out of my bed, and into the sunshine, watching the snow recede in the near distance.
April can be a cruel month.
A little later, in “The Wasteland”:
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Yes, I think perhaps it has. I think I see the blossoms beginning to peep out.