This time of year it’s common around here to hear people complain, “Oh, when will spring ever come?”
There was a time when I could have been heard whining that same refrain. But I’ve now been around the sun enough times to have learned two things:
First: Spring is slow in the North
Spring isn’t late. Just because the earth passes the equinox the third week in March doesn’t mean the temperature will automatically rise above freezing – and stay there. As anyone who has ever tried to change a habit – to eat less, exercise more, quit smoking, floss – knows: change is a process, and spring is no exception.
I’ve come to love the process of spring, from the way winter can linger with late-season storms to the blossoming of the gravel roads into fragrant, tire-sucking, mud. I love watching the snow recede from the field like an outgoing tide, allowing an incoming tide of green to revive the grass.
This process of the earth thawing, the sunlight gaining, and photosynthesis gearing up for another season of growth, is an opportunity to do other things: In the past week, we’ve pruned the raspberries, taken the snow tires off the car, and gone to Boston while the garden is still buried in snow. We have just a few more weeks to put the skis and snowshoes back in the basement and clean the garage before we’ll be turning the soil and planting onions, shallots and leeks.
As much as I will welcome the sweet daffodils, elegant tulips and fragrant lilac, I’m in no rush, for I know that once the growing season begins, life becomes a race to plant, swim, and hike in the short time before harvest. Just as spring in the north is slow, summer is short, which leads to the second lesson I’ve learned.
Second: There’s no use complaining.
Complaining, in fact, isn’t just a waste of breath; it’s also a waste of time. As I age, I become aware just how time is of the essence: of all the things that we can run out of – toilet paper, milk, money – time is the one thing that cannot be replaced.
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Thank you. Your commentaries are always thoughtful and interesting. And wise.
Thanks so much for letting me know you’re out there, reading these posts, and appreciating them . . . it means a lot!
Dear Deborah,
Thank you for this post. Your upbeat attitude regarding our late spring helped me to realize that I had better stop feeling blue about the weather. It would be nice if we had more blue sky–but there I go again–complaining about something we can’t control.
I enjoy all of your posts.
My best, Ellie
Hi Ellie, I’m so glad to know you’re a regular reader!
I love the picture of your garden gate………so familiar. It feels like home.
It IS home – and you’ll be back in a few weeks. I’m looking forward to your return!
So enjoy how you “put things”
Spring, always a mystery. Never mundane!
Spring, or lack there of, always seemed more tolerable when looking at it through the eyes of the children.
There were endless icicles dripping from the roof of the winters accumulation of now melting snow.
Buckets of icicles into the bathtub, fencing matches and many science experiments with them, passed the rainy days.
The March that dumped 3 massive storms and the children were delighted to be allowed to dive off the gazebo, or made their entrance to the house using the second floor bathroom window.
The giggles of the children as the roof accumulation slid off the roof only to darken the house and to see the dog, peering down at us from the remaining slit of window not covered by the roof release.
Squirt bottles filled with food dye to make dragons in the last of the remaining snow piles.
Picnics in the sun on tablecloths strewn in the sun on the back porch.
The spring that topped them all though, was 1989 when spring brought me motherhood for the first of three times. (Cody will be 29 on Friday)
The angst of making the Lamaze classes with intermittent snow storms, amid the horror stories of our classmates, torturously navigating RT. 9 over Hogback mountain in a storm, only to be told it was just Braxton Hicks. Sure added adventure to the picture!!
The reward was a spring to just snuggle in with a newborn. Naps bundled up in the spring sunshine on the porch, with the lullaby of the brook swelling with the melting snow.
Time to just hunker down and have to go nowhere.
Warm memories of many many New England springs, now replaced with only the giggles of joy watching the cat meander further than her boundaries of the winter. Her delight in the emerging of the chipmunks, and mice and the birds.
Gone are the adrenaline rushes of spring when we had to navigate to sports, drama or music practices never knowing if we would hit a slope of black ice or end up on a road that had turned to oatmeal in the sun. Spring has slowed down for just two seniors and a cat, but is still an adventure if you turn your attention to it.
Once again, Deb, your writings have sparked our focus to the positive and wonderful adventures of life. Thank you for how you “put it”. You create smiles in your words!
Andi
Andi, I love this riff – especially the icicle swordplay and your maternal instincts to hunker down with a new baby. Thanks for sharing your take on late spring and its bittersweet joys.
This essay is especially beautiful, Deb. Thank you.
Thanks for saying so, Fran. This spring has been especially slow in coming – making me so appreciative of today’s sunshine and the bravery of the crocuses throughout the process.