March may be the second cruelest month

Walking to my car today after work (it's Spring Break, so there's actually parking on campus within reasonable walking distance this week, which means I don't have to take the little shuttle-bus), I felt like I was coming out from down under. Down under the blankets. Or out from a dark hole. Up for air.

Maybe it's because the light doesn't fade until after 6:00pm these days. Or maybe it's because spring is nearly palpable. Or maybe it's because I'm prone to unexpected mood swings.

Photo from Angela in Europe,
who got me thinking
about "The Waste Land"
with this picture

I have felt weighted down for at least the last four or five months. Maybe I'm finally surfacing. Or maybe not. It's always hard to tell.

I know it's only March, but I'm restless. I'm anxious. I hear T.S. calling to me:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.

~The Waste Land, lines 1-43; T.S. Eliot