Valentine

 

Zeppo keeps his eye on me. 

 "At the end of an age, the denizens of the age still profess to believe that they can understand themselves by the theory of the age, yet they behave as if they did not believe it. The surest sign that an age is coming to an end is the paradoxical movement of the most sensitive souls of the age, the artists and writers first, then the youth, in a direction exactly opposite to the direction laid down by the theory of the age." 

The Message in the Bottle: How Queer Man Is, How Queer Language Is, and What One Has to Do with the Other

I have felt this, the sense that the old and hateful structures are being thrown away by so many, while others desperately cling to them and scream that they are eternal and can never change. But the weight of change is inevitable and leaking through everywhere. And it's not just young people,  many of us have been pushing for a long time. Some of the young people are entitled and wealthy and holding to their father's twisted values and inflated status with fervent hatred. 

Change is happening, we have reached a tipping point, any battles won by the old guard are symbolic and transient.  The will be there, but irrelevant and overwhelmed. 

I woke up this morning with a sense that everything had changed. Rain fell all day yesterday, unusual here - our rain may be heavy, but it is rarely so persistent. Perhaps once or twice a year to get a lingering rain. Turned to snow overnight, but nothing serious, enough to sweep not to shovel. Moisture for our drought, last year was terribly dry.  I'd left the garden last fall, the sunflower stalks left to stand - which pleased the LBBs (little brown birds).  This week, I cut them down and raked up for composting all the old leaves and twigs, well most of them. 

Soaking coriander to plant, despite the snow, it's not all that cold, and cold weather seeds will be fine, or at least worth the risk. 

Love to all, and on this day especially.