On a walk yesterday I saw the forsythia, its stems plump with blooms held in check. I saw the red furze of the maples budding. The few daffodils were hanging their heads in the chill breeze that blew in. They were waiting too, waiting for the warmth to return.
Downtown, I hear, blossoms are already unfolding. But here, where I live, on this Easter Saturday, it is still a day of waiting.
The whole of this winter-gouged, potholed world is poised for spring.
Sixty-two when I woke up, the first warm morning in a while. Taste of rain in the air. A breeze that stirs the ornamental grass and clatters the wind chimes.
There is warmth that builds steadily through the hours, from a chill sunrise to a parched afternoon. And then there is warmth given from the start, a gift to utilize or to squander.
Today we have the latter — and it brings a coziness to the house. We’re here already, no need to strive, to be hopeful about the angle of the sun or the tilt of the wind.
It’s the difference between a day that grows into itself and one that starts off fully formed, has everything to lose.
This, of course, assumes warmth to be desirable, which is not always the case. But on this April 3, after this February and this March, it most certainly is.
It’s not just the red bud that blooms in red this time of year. Many trees are erupting in a frizz of scarlet. Red oak, maples, burning bush and others.
I snapped these tree buds out a window as they posed in front of a nice, neutral wall. But they’re just the beginning.
I look up, see a blur of pale color where stark branches used to be.
Spring begins slightly out of focus, as if our eyes can’t take too much at once.
I’ve never been a big fan of March. True, there is basketball to watch, and the first daffodils to savor. January and February are behind us, always a good thing. But March has never been one of my favorite months.
As time continues to speed up on me, however, as March comes sooner and sooner every year, I realize I can no longer afford to dislike it. (Of course, you could make the opposite argument — that the faster time goes, the quicker we will be done with March — but I’m trying to be positive in this post!)
All this is to say that March and I are considering a truce. Take yesterday’s walk, for instance. It was with Copper, which meant melancholy was impossible. Still, I was expending some mental effort trying to figure out what it is about the month that bothers me.
But as I pondered, my eyes kept straying to the gray/white sky, to the birds wheeling about trees still winter bare. A desultory woodpecker drilled loudly from the woods. A crow touched down with wind-swerved wing. The first brave yellows and purples stuck their heads above ground. And suddenly I was struck with the feel of the air and of the moment. There is much to behold in this raw month, much to appreciate in its wild, windswept beauty.
I walk carefully through the meadow, choosing grass clumps and leaf piles and anything else that will keep the mud off my shoes. The snow and rain have saturated our soil; to walk on it now is to sink a little with each step.
Aren’t we all a little tender this time of year? Coats cast aside, jackets unzipped, the feel of the sun on newly bared skin. There’s a freedom but also a sensitivity.
So it is with the earth. Clover and fescue just starting to take hold. Even the lightest of foot falls leaves an imprint. I tiptoe to the trampoline to give the grass a chance. I watch with dismay as Copper scrambles after the ball, his every feint and skid leaving deep tracks in the mud. The yard is marked with our play.
But this tender time will pass, I tell myself. Even now new plants are anchoring themselves in the ground, their roots spreading. Soon they will weave a net, a home, a bulwark. Soon the land will be less impressionable. Until then, I’ll tread lightly.
Walking past piles of dirty snow yesterday, I felt like I was in a construction zone.
There were mechanical teeth marks in the snow, the signs of big-shovel scraping and the variegated curve that comes from a bulldozer shoving. There were salt crystals from the ice storm and sand grit from the snowstorm. There was gravel embedded in the snow mounds beside the road.
But right nearby was green grass showing, icy ponds melting, warm sun shining.
A big battle has been waged. Winter is on the wane — and spring, we think, is winning.
One hour is a pebble in the shoe, the insignificant that will not be silenced. Put in perspective it is nothing, this shift of time. With all the great world’s spinning, how could it be important? It is only a matter of accounting, right? A shift from one column to another.
But so exquisitely tuned are we, so finely adapted to familiar segments of darkness and light, that one hour brings a yelp of pain or a cry of joy. Sandpaper-eyed mornings, loose-limbed evenings. A stark jump to the cold days of early spring.
The black ice on the driveway and the snow on the deck makes it hard to take this hour seriously. This hour will not catapult us to spring. It is the alarm set too early, tugging us to ragged wakefulness in the middle of the night.
Day before yesterday I stole an hour at lunchtime to walk the Cross-County Trail. I hadn’t been on it in months. This was the stretch closest to my house, less than 10 minutes away. I wasn’t sure it would be cleared of ice, and when it was, my feet flew!
The snow was piled high beside the path and rivulets of meltwater ran across the pavement. The sun was warm on my face and the Chieftains loud in my ears. From time to time a bird call or two broke through the music.
I wasn’t the only one out. There were dog walkers and solo wanderers and a group of three that took up the whole path.
“Passing on the left,” said a runner as he sped past by. “It’s good to be out today, isn’t it?” And it was. A hint of spring in the air and in our steps. The greening well hidden — but the promise of it all around us.
As the first week of Lent draws to a close I remind myself — as I do always this time of year — that the word “Lent” comes from the Angle-Saxon word “to lengthen.”
Days are growing longer. This is not only a season of spiritual renewal but of natural renewal, too.
I need this reminder. The witch hazel, earliest harbinger of winter’s end — whose late February blooming (pictured in Monday’s post) is usually a surprise — is as brittle and dead-leafed as it was a month ago. If the crocuses and daffodils are stirring to life I wouldn’t know it — they’re buried under half a foot or more of crusty snow.
But the forsythia branches have a yellow glow about them, a fullness. The late winter sun feels warm on the skin. And up high the tree buds are swelling.
A light snow, easily cleared, meant a long walk yesterday — and a chance to contemplate how much better winter looks when it’s wearing white.
There is a time in late November when bleakness is becoming — bare trees, barren fields, a monochromatic palette. A soothing contrast to summer greens and autumn golds.
But by mid-February, bleakness is boring. The eye craves contrast, softness. It looks for shelter, for cover.
In the language of fashion, winter white is that which is worn after Labor Day — creams and oysters and parchments. But in the language of weather, winter white is the mantle only snow can bring. And finally, it’s here.