That time of year -- again

Shakespeare has a wonderful poem which I have always loved:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold    
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang    Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,   Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

I mention it now because this was the image that called to me this morning, and I realize it's because that time of year has come again, not the one with the autumn leaves, but the one where I begin to hunger for color and light.

I'm sure that's what was driving my recent fascination with Assisi -- and then yesterday, in looking for an excuse to go to Assisi, I happened upon an upcoming Wisdom Week in New Mexico with Cynthia Bourgeault and Richard Rohr (already, sadly, fully booked; even the waiting list is full).  I haven't been to New Mexico in years, but I adored it when I went, and the hunger to return always grows particularly acute this time of year.

No, this is not New Mexico, it's the Alamo.  (All seventeen rolls of film I shot in New Mexico were destroyed by the airport x-ray machines, a loss I've mourned ever since).  But these are the colors I'm hungering for -- the deep blue of sky, the rich yellow of adobe, the stark contrasts of the desert... Sigh.

That hunger -- like all hungers -- is probably symptomatic of something internal, something spiritual; a feeling within of a sort  of gray muddiness, a longing for light and clarity.  Which might speak to some shift occurring, or to the imminence of Lent -- or perhaps it simply reflects the fact that this morning's meditation was interrupted twice, and so I'm not operating on a full tank today.

I'm thinking, after I drive my husband to the ferry, I should try again...