“Men that look upon my outside, perusing onely my condition, and fortunes, do erre in my altitude; for I am above Atlas his shoulders.”
Written by Sir Thomas Browne some centuries ago in his work Religio Medici, this sentence caught my attention when I first encountered it some years ago and it continues to fascinate me. The image of Atlas is curious. I always picture this god holding the earth on his shoulder, then inevitably wonder, not how heavy it must be, but where could he be standing. What is below Atlas his feet? And I admire the surprising use of the word “altitude.” But ultimately I suspect the main reason this sentence resides and rides along in memory is its sound, the syntax and cadence, especially that final phrase zeroing in on the shoulders.
Because my thoughts tend to dash off on wild tangents when reading, I sometimes (more often than I should care to admit) miss the point, and missing the point of this sentence by Browne would be especially embarrassing given that the sentence is about misreading, about errors in judgment. So let me change directions and get to the point of this blog entry, the point being that I did err in my estimation of the month of April.
Just as it’s possible to err in the estimation of a person’s “altitude,” it’s also possible to mistake the weather. By and large the general consensus of the weather throughout the month of April was that it was the pits, that it wasn’t fit for man nor beast. Perusing the conditions at my window or on the computer screen I too easily agreed. I was convinced spring wasn’t coming. The days linked together to form a malicious, unwelcome limbo. Each afternoon seemed to lose its way between melting ice and freezing water. However much I griped and kept from venturing out, the world beyond our snow-spattered windows found enough sunlight and warmth to get on about the business of changing seasons.
Judged by the list of first-of-the-year sightings—the first Chorus Frogs, the first Sandhill Cranes, the first mining bees, the first dragonflies, the first flowers, Scilla and Sanguinaria on the ground, Salix and Acer overhead —spring undoubtedly arrived in April. The ice went out. The grass turned green. Underneath the shroud of inclement weather, snow falling even to the final days of the month, the soil unthawed, the buds burst, and the insects awoke.
So far, May has been a lot easier to read.