The dissonance was always there, and in my 30s I finally became aware of it. Since then I have wondered why but found only a few tentative explanations. When I was very young, it seemed like something tragic happened every spring. Later on, spring meant the end of school; I loved school and found summers dreadly boring. Montgomery County, Alabama has one tornado every other year on average, and about half of them occur in March, April, or May — a scary time. May was the month when temperatures there climbed above 90, the start of prolonged discomfort in houses without air conditioning.
My senior years have bestowed a more balanced view of spring and an appreciation of the beauty it offers (plus the start of baseball). Still I find myself on guard against irrational exuberance as though I have an internal censor. That which is born in spring will eventually pass. It's not the birth itself, rather the living that matters.
