This is what I call the e e cummings season, "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful." Today’s forecast calls for rain, which was supposed to begin ten minutes ago; my guess is that it’s holding off till I get to Walmart’s parking lot and will let go the minute I open my car door. But that’s just a guess.
Just-spring here in Northeast Indiana comes with a full basket of tulips and dandelions, mowed yards, birds courting, bushes in red and green and yellow, trees in pink and white and magenta and yellow-green.
Landscaping is newly mulched. Gardeners grow antsy waiting for the frost-warnings to lift so they can be the first kid on their block with annuals shoving each other aside in hanging baskets and flower boxes and any little patch of soil that doesn’t have anything in it.
Spring returns every year (March 21st in the northern hemisphere), with new growth in the earth; with hope for new beginnings (Easter is a spring festival, you know); with beauty so abundant you feel it will run right over you.
It’s overflowing and everywhere. And it’s for everyone.
Spring (with apologies to Janne Robinson for her lovely poem) doesn’t care: whether you’re black, white, Hispanic, or other. If you’re super-sensitive to pollen or criticism or penicillin. If you’re grieving or rejoicing. If you’re too old to, too young to, or don’t give a damn. If your income exceeds your outgo or you have no income worth talking about. Spring breathes on us, whether we like it or not.
All the therapy in the world won’t take away Spring. All the fervent prayers, tears, threats, tantrums—no effect on Spring.
We’ll have to deal with Spring-endure it, embrace it; enjoy it, avoid it. Spring doesn’t care.
If you see a white-haired woman in a black sweatshirt and New Balance walking shoes, carrying a box of Kleenex, that’s probably me. I’ll sneeze my way around the block, or the Y track on rainy days.
Spring doesn’t care.
But I do.
Celebrate Spring! And I hope you enjoy what She has to offer.