Today is the
first day of spring!
Of course, you
wouldn't know that from looking out my window here in Southern Ontario. The
weather forecast calls for a high of 27 degrees Fahrenheit, but with the wind
chill it will feel more like 18. Brrr. Have I ever mentioned that I hate the
cold?
Yet, despite the
cold temperatures that were slow in coming this winter and now apparently loath
to depart, it is the first day of the new season. I hear the birds early
in the morning, and that is one of only two real signs I've seen that it is
indeed nearly time for the cold and the snow to retreat. The other sign are the
green shoots poking up through the snow and ice as my daffodils and tulip bulbs
have come awake and are preparing to bloom for another year.
If they survive
this last bit of winter, that is.
I cherish the
cycle of nature that finds us going from season to season each year. I guess
part of the reason for that is despite the changes we've all witnessed in
climate, and even though the characteristics of each season seem to no longer be
as consistent as once they were, the seasons nonetheless do change. They occur
each year, forming a rhythm to life that is at once comforting and
exciting.
Spring has
always been my favorite time of year. I love it not only because the
temperatures slowly climb from the cold of winter toward the heat of summer. I
love it because it is the season of renewal and rebirth. It is, if you will, the
season of second chances.
I am a great
believer in redemption and second chances.
When I think
back to the days of my youth, I remember Saturday morning, awakening to the
sound of birdsong. I would sleep with my window open as soon as it was mild
enough to do so, and my favorite days were the ones when the breeze coming
through my window was that wonderful aroma we used to call fresh
air.
I'm not trying
to be facetious, but there really was a quality to the air that was different
forty years ago, than it is today—although still, every once in a great while I
step outside and do inhale that treasured, remembered scent.
The trees would
be enveloped in an aura of green—that point when the buds are there, but haven't
yet burst into leaves. The sun would shine in the vibrant blue sky of
springtime—a different blue than the pale of winter—and for those moments, those
precious moments, it felt as if anything, anything at all was
possible.
As a young wife
and mother, springtime always made me itchy to get my hands in the soil, to work
up flower beds and plant my vegetable garden. It seemed a long wait from those
first stirrings of the new season until our traditional planting time—the May
24th weekend. We waited that long to ensure the danger of frost was
past.
I'm no longer
young, and playing in the soil is different for me now. I have window boxes that
fit on my porch railing, so if I want to plant, I can do that. I was finally
successful in getting my beloved to plant a few flowers in my yard, and those I
am hoping, as I see their tiny green shoots above the snow, will survive and
bloom.
Most people
think of change, of starting fresh and making resolutions on New Year's Day. I'd
much rather—if I was going to do such a thing—perform that ritual when the
breezes of springtime first caress the land.
It seems more
fitting a time to make vows of self-improvement, and the spirit of renewal in me
would have a resounding echo in the world that surrounds me.
Love,
Morgan
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