I don’t know how it happened. I must have been thinking too
much, navel-gazing as it were, or maybe just eating a delicious snack, but
somehow, suddenly, everything is green and we are halfway to summer. It happens
every year – every year! The quiet wonder and reverence of winter fades come
February, and I start wondering what leaves look like, and who the heck
warblers are, and why do I have to wear so many coats, anyway? And then I’m
walking at night, and look up to the miraculous sight of a moon shining through, get this, leaves. And the firsts come streaming, with hardly any time
to gape: the first phoebe insistent by the river; the grape in leaf, with all
its tiny fruits already in miniature, pinky-red; the first breeze which is
turned sibilant by new leaves, instead of its wintry, creaking whistle; the
dandelions, turning pastures sun-fuzzy; the roadside coltsfoot already gone to
fluffy seed.
I consider myself average-to-slightly-above in my level of
awareness of the seasons, and yet I’m humbled every year. Spring is in process
in February, and well on its way in March, but with snow and sleet and harsh
winds I always grapple with my faith. Its an invisible turning, for a while
there, and the long-lasting chill numbs my senses a bit. The upside, though, is
an awakening so fast and opulent that it nearly blows me away. Walking on one
of the first warm days quite literally raises my pulse, quickens my step, and
I’m sure increases all kinds of good brain juice. I feel dual urges to thank
the world and apologize for my doubt.
But here we are, whether we doubted or not, and there is new
ease around us. I forget the way we brace in the cold, and the loveliness of
letting go, letting out, breathing easy. Life comes quickly now, it seems to
rush in streams of red admirals and oven birds and Johnny-jump-ups. I must
remember not to forget.
