Winter is ebbing out like the tide. I don’t mind the spring, but summer heat contributes to feelings of depression. I have never figured out if it is the heat itself or the fact that it relegates what I can do. Perhaps I am simply a lycanthrope of some kind and the heat of my blood cannot foster an affinity with the heat of the outside.
Loving winter makes me feel guilty. When we were children, books wove a lovely tapestry in the story of Persephone. Here is this beautiful woman with an overly attached mother, and when she leaves to live with her husband for a few months every year, the overly attached mother lets her sadness devour her and consume her command over the weather. The focus is Demeter. Persephone is a prop. Pretty girls should be seen and not heard.
The stories glaze over the fact that Persephone was stolen. Raped. Abused. Tricked. Tangled in a web of divine law that forced her to return to her rapist year after year after year. All because she ate some pomegranate seeds?
Granted, these are mythologies and not documented historical accounts. Children are also told that happiness is easy to obtain if you strive for it. When you get older, you are forced to face the reality behind many fairy tales.