It’s either about Richard III or Steinbeck, right?
Richard III, according to Shakespeare, looked back on the bad times as peace returned. It was a glorious summer after a winter of discontent. He skipped spring somehow. The point was the passing of these human events as seasons.
Steinbeck is less clear. For his main character, the winter of discontent seems to continue longer than a season has a right to claim.
Like a virus that won’t go away, despite the passing of seasons. Years. Lives.
Once again, we are redefining well-known terms. This winter of discontent has continued beyond its expected boundaries, giving us all seasons of discontent. We once believed climate change was a meteorological term. Now it’s personal, even visceral.
Prior to 2020, we now have years of remember-what-it-was-like-before, and soon we’ll remember the old normal as being better than it was. Something about surviving contrast makes the abyss between the two conditions wider with each memory.
If we never faced winter, nothing would ever change. Under the stark, frozen, unflowered, and colorless landscapes, nature seems to understand the necessity of a season of decay before rebirth.
We have to wonder, what will rebirth from this look like?
