Wednesday, March 7, 2012

A Dreary March Day

There are those expected dreary days in March. When I worked as a therapist here in the Upper Midwest, March was the hardest month for people. And a funeral home director once told my husband more deaths occur in April than any other time of the year.

Common sense would suggest other scenarios. Why would more people die when spring is bursting out of dormancy? The offered explanation by this person in the "death business" was that people hang on through the winter - and when spring comes they relax - and die.

I always thought the March blahs occurred because people living here were too busy coping in January with snow, frigid temperatures, and cars that wouldn't start to pay much attention to any inner feelings of despondency. Ditto for February. But March ,when life eases up a bit, people can't push back feelings anymore that they have been denying for months.  Finally they concede life is overwhelming and they need help for issues ranging from martial discord to depression. Then my phone would ring with the voice on the other end says "I need help. Can I make an appointment."

Other theories about the cycles of life here suggest March is cabin fever month. Being cooped up in buildings from November until March leads to an urgent need to escape "from the cabin." Some folks are fortunate enough and can afford to literally go somewhere - preferably somewhere with lots of warm sunshine. Although paradoxically, some people head for skiing vacations in places like Colorado - with lots of snow. Go figure.

But this is the year, with almost no snow and record high temperatures, the theories are under pressure. Either they proves our body physiology becomes wired to this cyclical pattern, perhaps having to more with years of living here than how foul the weather has been. Or maybe we share something with migratory birds who are on the move in response to increased hours of sunlight, regardless of what the weather is doing.

Outside my window, it is dreary and making puny attempts to rain. I feel the usual urge to escape. Anywhere. 

Edvard Munch's painting, The Scream, says it all!

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