If you wonder why I can't stop waxing poetic about Spring's lazy arrival, it's only because it feels like I'm greeting an old childhood friend, like that new girl from 6th grade who had the nerve to show up wearing eye shadow and pumps and didn't stay for long, but whose memory still makes me smile.
I'd still sit and have coffee with you, Dawn, I quite like nervy girls.
Things are prone to changing around here, but the one thing that never, ever does is the teetering stack of to do lists by my bed. And on my floor. And strewn around the entire house.
I'm heart-deep right now in spring cleaning, which I'll have to tell you about in a separate post because right now I don't have enough words for it.
These days, the weather is drippy and impetuous.
Coldish and breezyish.
I'm doing my best to enjoy March as-is.
Under her influence, I'm a wild optimist, a risky dreamer, a friend of the rainy day. By March, in Ohio, Winter starts to wane. It does not follow that Spring kicks in. Sun happens, March through May, in small, non-contiguous, lingering bursts. But it will be two months, anyway, before Spring is here to stay.
April is, after all, no stranger to snow.
March is not ambivalent in the least. It totally has a purpose, and it is called pause. Respite, re-calibration, ramping up. It is March's job is to make sure we're sick and tired of winter, and ready and waiting for spring. Roger, that.
And even if March is raw throats and runny noses, sick days and sleepless nights, it seems like last gasps, like end parens, on a season that surely is near done. Right? Right! Besides, it opened up a Friday to finish an over due project, between tissues and appointments and tea.
March is rain, rain, (snow), rain! After Winter's deep freeze, its kitty-paw snow, I'd all but forgotten that plip-plop, plip-plop. It actually woke me up one night. Then hypnotized me right back to sleep.
Then you send the odd flurry of snow. The day after Winter is over, say. It didn't stick around, but still...On the second day of Spring, it is forty three degrees...
I think, March, it's fair to say you also have a sense of humor.
You are crunchy brown earth, too thuggish to dig, too ugly to not at least feel the itch. Yes, I'm the one who orders seeds after Christmas, poking with a spade, eager to begin. I recognize that this March moment's important, this awareness that someday soon, something must be done.
You are pre-daffodils I dare to cut, when the buds are barely more bulge than stem. I know I'm pushing it. I expect nothing. They bloom anyway.
And then, there's the light, the last faded light, the final throes of Winter's soft hum. Raging bright sun is returning with a vengeance, and I'm dusting off my soon-requisite squint. And doubling down, drinking my fill of the intermittent, exquisite overcast. The flannel skies, the tip-toe mornings, the pale monochrome afternoons. Hush light.
In the past week, between clear and glare, I've been gifted a few pigeon-belly grey days. Oyster shell days. Damp newspaper days. Old sock, fresh concrete, dirty mop water days. Days with light so gauzy and fair that even laundry baskets look appealing. Full, unfolded laundry baskets. Did I mention I love this light?
So while I might not call March my most favorite month, it seems I rather like it, turbulent temps and all.
This, I cannot fix. It's during this last, long peninsula of winter that I double down, take stock, get serious. When I pause long enough to pay heed to the daffodils, appreciate the moments, give thanks for a new season.
1 ripe avocado, halved and pitted
1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice, plus more to taste
Sea salt and coarsely ground black pepper
1 thick-cut slice seeded multigrain bread, toasted
½ teaspoon pepitas (pine nuts)
½ teaspoon sesame seeds
¼ teaspoon red-pepper flakes
Extra-virgin olive oil, for drizzling