Place Entry Four

In Florida, I spend most of the year hiding from the sun. It is intense, demanding, and prolonged. Summer lasts for six months, and seasonal changes are too subtle. Transitions between seasons are not defined by the equinoxes, and I often refer to the Farmer’s Almanac for long-range forecasts of cold fronts to pull me through. So, I welcomed January and February with prolonged cold fronts with a scattering of sub-freezing temperatures, as well as a grey-clouded sky which concealed the day’s sun. Change is good, and I crave extreme changes because they seldom happen.

So today is a break from the cold. It is seventy degrees and sunny-- the type of weather Northerners envy during mid-winter; the type that causes sane people to uproot their families, leave communities, trading their life for one in sunny Florida to not shovel snow. Today I’ll appreciate the sun, because I’ve been without it. I head down to the lake to see what colors the sunlight will generate. Lately all has seemed grey, so I’m looking for colorful signs of winter on a sunny day.

I think of St. Jovita, who was a Christian martyr decapitated for refusing to honor the sun. A pagan soldier attempted to coerce the deacon from Lombardy to worship the sun, but Jovita refused, only honoring God as the creator of the sun. The lake, a namesake of the martyred saint, is bathed in sunlight for most of the year. Today, I enjoy it like an old friend I’ve not seen in awhile, and I find colors that tell me it’s still winter.

A wooded area on the southwest side of the lake has a forest floor rich in textures and growth. A carpet of dense, wet leaves covers the floor that is scattered with wild coffee plants. They look like Christmas holly bushes, their deep evergreen leaves are stiff and waxy and shelter small, vibrant red berries like awnings. The plants are scattered as deep into the brush as I can see, and they’re beautiful. A generous mix of lima-green marsh ferns also covers the woods. On the periphery of this virgin forest are ligustrum trees with blackened leaves from the frost, which are now crowned with new tender leaves and bud clusters, healthy and katydid green. Mid-winter is showing its impatience for spring. The grass on the hillside that leads to the lake is dead, but instead of brown, it looks cinnamon in the bright orange sunlight. Mixed within the rusty grass are bright green weeds, and in the distance the sunlight glows on a grassy area as if a dusting of yellow pollen lay on top of the blades. The hillside looks like a muted patchwork quilt of green, rust, and yellow, blurry but calming like an Impressionist painting. Part of me enjoys the false- spring day, and part wants the grey and cold back because there hasn’t been enough change. It’s not change I fear, but stagnation. As I drive home, azaleas and dogwood trees in neighbors’ yards are beginning to bloom.