There are the true seasons and the hints of seasons. The day before yesterday I walked up the street in my brother’s Vancouver neighborhood on a mild day. It was the second in a row without rain and in the grass along the sidewalk crocuses were just coming up. Two hours later they had pushed another inch higher and opened into full bloom. Their hopeful yellow centers bare and brilliant in the pale early afternoon.
Today, brilliant sun and clear sky the day is cold back in Indiana. Every live thing is muted browns and grays. Even the evergreens are dull. But the light, ah the light, is cradling spring. Each day it holds out longer, and begins earlier. Each day moves us toward another opening.
There is little to be done about time’s inexorable forward spin. We can choose to be present or try to block it out. We can pretend we are the same as we were or open our own hearts in the hope of feeling cherished.
Sure, there will be more cold gray days, another snow, freezing rain in the month ahead. But the turning doesn’t lie. I know we are moving toward warmth again. I will watch the ground and the stars, and breathe as deeply as I can.