It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I don’t know about you, but the last part of March was busy. Insanely busy. I’m so glad April is here and even happier that Spring is really, truly here. Texas being Texas, we didn’t cross a weather bridge into spring, we plunged right in. One day we were sliding around on ice and the next day *boom* it was spring (okay, I exaggerate. A little).
As much as I love steaming cups of cocoa and cozy sweaters and a good book by a roaring fire, this past winter zapped me. Completely. I really don’t know why, because this wasn’t the worst winter I’d ever had. But for whatever reason, it came close. And I really started longing for spring in a way I never have before. The sun and warmth and blue skies and crispy grass couldn’t arrive soon enough.
I read this recently in A Moveable Feast, and it sums up so completely how I felt from January through March:
With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in Paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.
In those days, though, the spring always came finally but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.