It’s here. I felt it last night for sure. We went out to the market at around 8:30 and there was no trace of the customary bite in the air. It was dark, but it was warm.
Not July warm, of course, not even May warm, but April was present, a bit of a whisper, telling us the worst was long over. The scent of young grass and heady early spring flowers wafted up in the breeze and I felt a swelling in my chest. My mind raced through all the plans for this year’s garden. What would be moved or divided, what new plants would be added and where.
I woke in the early morning, unsuccessful at quieting the need for list making, until at least the sun’s arrival. I slipped out of bed and down to the basement to check on the seeds I’d only started the day before. The cat glanced up, looking disdainful. I know, I thought, get a grip.
I can’t really explain how much I love spring. I can only say this: if you ever feel like there is nothing in this world to look foward to, you need to pay a little more attention to what goes on around you in the month of March (or February, or April, or whenever winter transitions into spring where you are). Sometimes it really is the littlest thing that can make your heart leap. A lily poking through the mulch, a quince blossom rearing its coral-hued head, the blaring yellow trumpet of a daffodil begging for a look.
It’s all so amazing, really, to watch a grey, sleeping plot transform into a riotously gleeful garden. The gardener, too, transforms – from a pale, sullen creature into the very vision of industry.
I look forward to every aching muscle.