The changing of the seasons has always excited me. When I woke up this morning it was still dark, instead of light and muggy. It was cool, too, and I pulled up the covers. The night insects were still chirping. Even though I know the winter will be cold and dark, I still relish the changes. The leaves will color (and clog the gutter). Temperatures will fall (the ants will hibernate). Mornings will be foggy or frosty, the air (and my skin) will get dry. The deer, squirrels, and raccoons will be bold and let themselves be spied in the back yard.
When I lived in Minnesota--we joke that winters are nine months long: it can snow in April as easily as in December as in October--I experienced the same whole-life excitement at the beginning of fall. In the spring, I look forward to bright mornings, warmer days, the delicate green of new leaves, even though I know I will be tired of sweat before too long.
The thrill I experience when I wake up at six am and it's still dark is an slight reminder for me, every year, of the anticipation of monsoon. As many artists aspire to depict the sunset with their paints on a canvas, I dream of one day expressing the delight of the beginning of monsoon, the suspense before the first rains. More intense than any other seasonal change, waiting for monsoon pervades a whole community, and beyond your own local community, you KNOW the whole country--the whole region--is waiting and hoping for the same thing. The cicadas in the trees express it by their frenzied whine in the hottest part of the summer. The larks express it with their intricate, silly song.
Even though I know I will be exasperated by the rain, by wearing musty clothes, by not being able to see the other side of the valley, and dreading the telltale trail of blood following the leach that just gorged itself on your blood, I eagerly yearn for the absolute exhilaration of clouds floating in the open window across my face. Discovering rooster head ferns, catching glimpses of the sparkling lights in the valley between the showers, watching the sheeting rain advance over the landscape, falling asleep with the rain thundering (or tapping or thrumming) on the tin roof above your head--these are the joys of the monsoon in the Himalaya.
Alex Frater almost captured the senses in his Chasing the Monsoon. goodreads.com
When I lived in Minnesota--we joke that winters are nine months long: it can snow in April as easily as in December as in October--I experienced the same whole-life excitement at the beginning of fall. In the spring, I look forward to bright mornings, warmer days, the delicate green of new leaves, even though I know I will be tired of sweat before too long.
The thrill I experience when I wake up at six am and it's still dark is an slight reminder for me, every year, of the anticipation of monsoon. As many artists aspire to depict the sunset with their paints on a canvas, I dream of one day expressing the delight of the beginning of monsoon, the suspense before the first rains. More intense than any other seasonal change, waiting for monsoon pervades a whole community, and beyond your own local community, you KNOW the whole country--the whole region--is waiting and hoping for the same thing. The cicadas in the trees express it by their frenzied whine in the hottest part of the summer. The larks express it with their intricate, silly song.
Even though I know I will be exasperated by the rain, by wearing musty clothes, by not being able to see the other side of the valley, and dreading the telltale trail of blood following the leach that just gorged itself on your blood, I eagerly yearn for the absolute exhilaration of clouds floating in the open window across my face. Discovering rooster head ferns, catching glimpses of the sparkling lights in the valley between the showers, watching the sheeting rain advance over the landscape, falling asleep with the rain thundering (or tapping or thrumming) on the tin roof above your head--these are the joys of the monsoon in the Himalaya.
Alex Frater almost captured the senses in his Chasing the Monsoon. goodreads.com
