. On seasons and an incapability to reas seasonal books .
I recently realised that it isn't the beginning of March that makes me feel like Autumn has arrived, or that Summer officially begins when I wake on the first December morning. The seasons in Australia have been a little off-kilter for a couple years now, and where during childhood there was this sense that each season was impossibly of itself and was easily distinguishable, now... that doesn't seem so certain.
I feel like it's Winter when, mid-March, I'm stacking firewood. I feel like it's Spring when, mid January, we have a wet day and the grass is succulent and green and warm afterwards.
I'm very confused when, mid Winter, we get snow. But last year was a weird year for weather, so I'll let that one go.
It's the memories that can make what I might do on a wet, blustry day in April feel like the depths of Winter. Thunderstorms, bigger than I had ever experienced, gorgeous and wild and terrifying, momentous in ways that were enchanting and memorable, allowed a little part of myself to beileve Winter had come and hot chocolate was the only thing I could possibly drink and doonas the only thing I could possibly wrap about myself, even though was February. And also not that cold.
I woke up this morning to the sound of rain, and I stayed in bed for longer than I have in a while, reading and pretending and rather enjoying myself with a pantomime of near Winter (which, I mean, is what it actually is but beside the point beside the point beside the point). The sky is omnious and grey and the trees have been swaying and my room is vastly cold. Cups of tea have been cosumed and baby dogs have slept beside me (and on top of me because personal space is not something Kasta cares to understand and I love her for it).
And then it comes to books. I love the idea of reading seasonal books in accurate time, books set around christmas or halloween or a dead Winter night, but I am only organised to such a level, and it doesn't extend to my reading, no matter how much I may try to have it be another way. I'm more likely to read the frosty His Dark Materials during the heat of Summer than Winter, and I can read Agatha Christie during the whole year only avoid her when it comes to the end of October. I have a beloved Christmas read that I have only read leading up to christmas once and it was an experience of drudgery and boredom.
Because that's it, for me- or I think it is. It doesn't matter if it's Summer, because if I do something that reminds me of another season then that's where I am. After a time maybe all the seasons will just become a year, a year of blended heat and frost and rain and fog, and it'll be my memories that lead me. The things I did at another time that tell me how I'll spend my day. It'll be what I want to read that makes me pick up my next book.
So: what makes a season a season for you? And have you achieved the miraculous and read seasonal books during their "season"?