I felt something missing as I watched the snow fall this morning in mid-March. The scene itself was beautiful. The world was covered in pure white instead of being dressed in green, which is what one expects during spring. So no, I didn't feel something amiss because the snow had turned to a gray mush or some other unsightly substance. In all respects, I should have been excited or engulfed in a blissful state while staring into this rare white-out. But I didn't and that is exactly what was missing: excitement or happiness.
I did not even feel a hint of the happiness that I would have felt as a youth. I did not have the urge to throw snowballs or to build snowmen. But I tried. I tried to bring out these feelings because the lack of vigor bothered me. No luck. Instead, I fell into thoughts of how to meet appointments that were not already canceled due to the weather, I thought about when I'll be able to reschedule those missed meetings, and I thought about the terrible traffic that I knew would come once people decided they had enough of being home. In short, I worried. And I hate to be one that is consumed by worry, but I guess it comes with age. No, I take that back. Worry does not come with age but perhaps by the process of maturing. Or maybe it is a result of inhibition of the happy-go-lucky gene; a gene that I worry that I do not possess much of based on a quick examination of my parents. Regardless, I have lost something from my youth and forcing a way to find it has failed. Well, it has failed on this snowy spring morning. I am no prophet, so I will refrain from speaking for tomorrow.
