Wednesday, March 19 marked the first day of spring.
We have been teased with spring for the past month. Unseasonably warm temperatures have produced early blooms. But winter was not done yet.
We woke up Wednesday— the first day of spring— to near freezing temperatures. It was a brief cold snap, but it reminded us that winter is not done yet.
The weather forecast promises 60s and 70s for the foreseeable future, but the nights will still drop to the 40s and the spring of the year struggles to officially take hold. My grandmother always said we were at risk of a freeze up until Easter— no matter when Easter falls on the calendar.
She was right. Times like this are the in between.
We are in between cold winds and full gardens. We are in between fireplaces and swimming pools. We are in between winter’s evening snuggles and summer’s evening walks. Amidst the transition from winter’s snow to the budding of rhododendrons, we find ourselves observing robins and gazing into the gray skies. We focus our attention on the emerging patches of verdant wild grasses. Around us, remnants of seasons past linger: ashes in the fireplace and scattered sticks along pathways.
This gradual onset of rejuvenation, with its promise of new growth and blossoms, hints at the imminent return of the unruly chaos of springtime thunder storms and mud and seeds.
When night falls, we draw a blanket over ourselves, as if enveloped in a prayer. We express our gratitude for the belated appearance of color flower petals, the vibrant greenery and the subdued yellows adorning each branch’s end. With hopeful anticipation, we raise our eyes to the trees. We look for hidden nests nestled within the voids of their branches. We eagerly await the return of the hummingbird.
The songwriter Harry Chapin once wrote, “All my life’s a circle/ Sunrise and sundown/ The moon rolls through the nighttime/ ’Til the daybreak comes around/ All my life’s a circle/ But I can’t tell you why/ The seasons spinning round again/ The years keep rolling by.”
We are caught in the in between.
But, then again, it seems as if we always are.
