A Sight of Spring
The promise of Spring is bursting from the branches of dogwoods, though it’s still February. This has me disoriented. I’m propelled with premature excitement for the warmer, longer days ahead, even though I know there are still weeks yet to go.
We’re in that in-between time. Still pulled by the weight of winter, while being tugged by the warm touch of spring. I’m trying so hard to be patient. I keep reminding myself to slow down, to be reflective, to take care of the emotions and dormant activities that have filled up the last months. It’s hard to stay still when you can see that life is running ahead, blooms are springing forth, and the motivation to walk out of wintering seems to strengthen with each passing day.
I am overstimulated at the sight of the dogwood blossoms. They seem to mock my impatience. They also bring to mind memories of childhood, Easter photos and moist cool mornings. I know the azaeleas will soon release and then the hydrangea and the all of the richness of summer will explode and soon after that it will once again be time to prune back and retreat as another wintering arrives.
As I age I find that the seasons become my closest friends. Having lived through more than four decades of them, each winter, spring, summer and fall provide a sort of wayfinding for mood navigation. In the summer I have the energy to soak up the sun like a sponge. In the fall I begin to wrap myself around the chores of tidying and making room for the abundance of holidays and time spent inside. In the winter I roam through my home looking for signs of comfort. And in the spring I chase the lengthening daylight, eager to get into the woods, onto the water, and among other signs of life.
Wintering affects me. The shorter days, the longer nights, the more than a month-long barrage of holidays tinged with complicated relationships, pressure to spend extravagantly, bone-chilling nights that can only be endured by staying huddled inside home. It’s all sort of stressful because, though the season itself is rooted in rest and dormancy in the natural world, the first part of winter is bustling with activity, and then we are left to endure the latter part of the season with only the hope for sun and warmth and longer days.
The mind is a busy place. Better said, my mind is a busy place. I am in constant churning.
At the sight of the dogwoods this week, I allowed myself to be giddy and hopeful. I’m looking forward to these days ahead, to this next season. I’m eager to see the blooms that will be born from this most recent wintering. If the depth of dormancy is any indicator of the abundance that spring will bring, I’m counting on one helluva vibrant season ahead.
