The first signs of spring are pushing their way into the world. Tiny green shoots among the previous years grasses, delicate snow drops dot the gardens and the old magnolia tree is heavy with buds. Some days I find myself lighting a fire in the fire-place but other days, I have the windows thrown open, perhaps prematurely as I end up wrapped in layers, but the heady smell of the new season is powerful and irresistible; anything seems possible.
There is something thrilling about the first days of any new season but particularly I think to spring. Storms blow through often and with unmatched ferocity. Frost creeps in when you don’t expect and the occasional few inches of snow are still falling. These early days ask us to, rather consistently in fact, embrace the unexpected. As temperatures flip-flop and time changes come to pass, plunging us into darkness where there had been light and lifting the shadow of dark winter afternoons, we must wait patiently for what we know is coming. I, somewhat happily, awoke the other morning to find spring banished altogether and in its place, a wintery blanket of snow. Confused and delighted, I pulled on my boots and trudged out into the white world knowing full well that it wouldn’t last into the afternoon. I think it a bit remarkable that even after being away from this place for so long, I still understand its basic pulse. I feel pleased that the childhood memories of this land, not the film strip type of memory but the ones embedded and entwined in the land, endure after so much time away.