An example of literary journalism for my creative writing class:
The most dreary of all months is the very last of all the dreary months. Is that ironic? March. So leafless, so colorless. Much that covers the ground almost makes one wish for snow, but that is backwards. Backward to the lifeless winter that no matter the temperature always causes ones heart to long for spring. This month, of all months aches the most. The geese fly over our heads likely wondering to themselves, “Did we come back too soon?”
However, in the darkness of winter’s last hoorah, a hope for the inevitable seeps in, ready to sprout buds, push back the clouds, and open the doors of hibernation. We know it’s coming.
So now we are in mid March which is so often a time of heavy anticipation, as if millions of Upstate New Yorkers are carrying huge bricks, waiting to be able to set them down and relax. This year is so incredibly different though. It seems that there is little to be anticipated. A strange foreign feeling of warm breezes have already grazed the skin of our arms. The sun has shone its light, bursting forth and embracing the earth. “I missed you” it says. The grass has slowly begun to transform from the dull brown green of winter’s wrath to bright, bold shades reaching for the sky. The temperate climate of New York is more pleasant than the consistent climate of California cities like San Diego and San Fransisco. Geese are flying over wondering if they came to late? “Perhaps we are still flying over North Carolina” they say. The clear night skies lead the way to late star gazing which satisfies the soul and yet still makes us yearn for eternity. The poor skiers have wondered so longingly, “Where has our winter gone?” This year they never really had it. The anticipation of Spring’s awakening is already a thing of the past.
But is it? There is still a sense of longing because as beautiful as the weather is, something just doesn’t seem right. The weather is beautiful, but the outdoors as a view is still so ugly really. When Spring comes in March there is one thing lost in our memories. And even with birds chirping their happy tune, there is still an emptiness in the early March Spring. Nothing is in bloom. There are no flowers, no leaves, no new plants making their way out of the cold ground. The beauty of the earth has not yet shone its face. The wellness of colors and smells are yet to be enjoyed, melting our hearts and causing us to fall in love. The trees are not yet clothed in their formal suits, giving them the appeal to sit under and read or to climb. So for those who have not forgotten what Spring is really about, there is still great anticipation. There is still magic yet to be seen.
I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of His calling, what are the riches of the glory of His inheritance in the saints, and what is the surpassing greatness of His power toward us who believe. These are in accordance with the working of the strength of His might.