Okay, okay, okay. I’m not abandoning the Internet, or you, my faithful readers. At least not yet. It turns out that the sun doesn’t shine ALL the time in California, and that for the time being I am still a humble neurophysiologist, not yet the John Muiresque mountain-man figure I would like to cut, striding through the upper Sierras from apiary to apiary, divining deep truths about the way insect brains work from the patterns of blooming wildflowers, the tracks of cervids, and the enigmatic dendrites of oak trees.

Nor does it seem entirely fair to keep all this wonderful ebullience about the shapes of the world, these strange joys, hid under a bushel, when so many of you are stranded in the cold parts of the country, still breathing clouds of moisture in the nippy air, still rosy-cheeked; or still covered in the perpetual mists of Oregon winter, your hair and your clothes damp, the sun a distant memory. To you I say: Spring! It is just around the corner. I have been there, and it is sweet. You will make a thousand plans, or you will let yourself wander aimlessly, letting the friendly sun make his overtures to your ruddy noses and damp hair, the BGILLION flowers saturate your hair follicles, your toenails, your ear canals. The tips of your fingers will tingle. That soggy, brown field will turn green as God’s thumb, and some fine afternoon you will go there with a blanket, a bottle of a wine, and someone whose kisses are like blooming daisies.

(cdm | MovingDay)