October 2, 2010

You can count this among a seemingly endless list of blog entries begun in a setting that has been an all too common one for me lately (as opposed to “not Uncommon”): the same coffee shop I once swore I could never love (because I considered it as cozy as an Amtrack train car rolling slowly through the bad parts of Connecticut [the parts I like to call “Connecticut”]) and the same coffee shop that, for the last 6 months, has served as the figurative and literal outlet for my creativity. A year ago, as I walked down Church Street on a rainy Jazz Fest day, I could have counted on one hand the number of times I had crossed over this particular shop’s espresso-scented threshold (preferring instead to patronize a rival and cozier [albeit slightly muddy] shop instead). A lot can happen in a year, though, and my change in coffee shop preference is just the tip of that life-lesson-flavored coffee cake. And so it was that one year later, on yet another Jazz Fest day, instead of walking by this shop’s doors, I walked through them without hesitation. Of course, it didn’t hurt that last year’s rains had been replaced with a hot and muggy day accurately described in Webster’s Dictionary under “unbearable.”

It’s worth noting that, despite my complaints to the contrary, these hot and muggy days are actually part of the reason why I love this town. Taken separately from the rest of the variety of weather in New England, and specifically, Burlington, these “unbearable” days don’t have much of a bright side to them; when considered with the rest of the 4-season (or is it 5?) package, however, and their purpose becomes clear. It seems that they were added to our climate to produce that all-too-elusive perspective: you know, the one that helps us appreciate the good times by reminding us of the bad. It’s the same effect that results from the bitter nose-hair-freezing winter temperatures of late January. This perspective is on the minds of every Vermonter in the summer when the college kids leave, the lake temperatures climb, the winter-stomped grass turns green, and every sunset seems to be drawn by a kindergartner with a 96-color Crayola crayon box; and in the winter when the temperatures are cold but bearable, the snow hasn’t yet been corrupted by exhaust and sanding, and the streets, lit magically by tree lights and a vibrant moon, with the mountains as a backdrop, make you wonder whether Van Gogh had ever visited Burlington.

The best part of our region’s different seasons is that all of them last a significant amount of time, and yet not one of them lasts too long. It’s almost as if each season is an equal part to a 4-course dessert meal. The strawberry summers end as you begin to crave the apple-pie falls, which end just in time for the hot fudge sundae winters, which last just long enough to make the lemon-tart springs seem like a well-earned reward for the belly-ache-inducing lengthy winter. Rinse off your plates and repeat, making sure, of course, to save your forks. As someone who appreciates whimsy as much as he appreciates structure, it’s comforting to have an idea of what to expect for your next meal, without quite knowing how the meal will be prepared. Will it be an unseasonably hot fall, or a spring whose afternoons are just aching to turn into summer? And if you’re unsatisfied with a particular season, don’t worry: next year’s offering will most surely please. Our seasons are Vivaldi recordings set to repeat; until the sun turns black, they’ll always come full circle.

We’re nearing the Summer Solstice yet again and as the sun perfects its six-month dance with prime time, I can’t help but focus on the connection between New England’s four seasons and my own life. (You had to know that this blog was going to be about more than the weather!) As I’m sure you know, there’s a sister phrase to the idiom “come full circle”: “what goes around comes around,” which basically means you end up receiving what you give (aka, karma). And I’m sure all four of my readers have considered this phrase on more than one occasion when contemplating the fate of someone who has hurt them (i.e., “just wait till he gets his … what goes around comes around!”) or when dealing with a bad string of luck that leaves you with a sneaking suspicion that your past of giving poorly has finally come back to bite you on the receiving end. And I’ve thought these thoughts, too, but for the sake of today’s blog, I’d like to consider another point of view: “what goes around comes around” is just a five-word phrase for something Elton John could describe in three words: “Circle of Life.” Like the yin and yang, New England’s four seasons, or a Quentin Tarantino film, when it comes to life, the beginning is the end is the beginning, and all points in between are connected.

With this in the front of my mind, like Neo at the end of The Matrix, lately I’ve felt as if the layers of my life and the world around me have been removed and in their place I can now see the patterns connecting us all that have always been hidden just beneath the surface: a book I finished editing over 5 years ago that found its way back into my life in the most symbolic of ways; the feeling that my penultimateness has faded away exactly when it was supposed to, and that my bad luck has rubbed off on someone deserving of it; the fact that a year has passed by me since the last rainy Jazz Fest and that the rain has been usurped by the sun; and the realization that I’ve encountered four very distinct seasons in the last 12 months: the incipient decline of autumn, the frost bite of winter, the rebirth of spring, and the life, love, and warmth of summer. What went around has finally come around back to me, as fast as it possibly could.

Author: Mr Benchly

I'm quirky. And a writer. Sometimes in that order. View all posts by Mr Benchly