There are times of the year I needed to adjust to. My mother was a freak, holidays were terror for her, she must have instilled that feeling of discomfort in me. She hated Christmas because she couldn't stand family gatherings and the idea of extra cooking. She disliked Easter even more because she never knew how to dress us due to unstable weather conditions. For this reason, the season she hated the most was Spring, also because she was obsessed with looking fit and warm days force you to abandon hiding coats. And generally, she didn't like mess and going out, so dressing up for Carnival or taking us to parties was out of question.
I grew up ignoring these beautiful periods and never learned the real spirit of them. Even normal Sundays, when everyone was more relaxed and chilling, she used to spend them in bed, totally neglecting her family duties. Talk about parents responsibilities, huh? Now that I have a family of my own and a beautiful little girl to raise, I had to set up our own traditions, starting from the very beginning. I still don't totally get the spirit of it all, I guess it takes time, but I try my best and at least I don't get paranoid before Christmas anymore. I actually start to countdown for it. This is an important progress.
Spring is a totally different story. I'm getting to love it thanks to my passion for photography, which takes me out trying to capture it in its real essence. This hobby really opened my eyes, I'm more alert with details and I've a vivid curiosity for everything now.
From you I have been absent in the Spring
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proudlap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vrermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
You seem'd it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 98
A sarcastic thanks to my mother, by the way. Grrrrrrr!