It was technically spring last week, although here in the northeast it still feels like winter. This morning was freezing, raw winds tearing through the woods where I ran Charlie. We squelched through certain spots, the snow having melted, frozen, and melted again over already rain soaked earth. Charlie’s low carriage skimmed the ground, muddying her white feet and belly. I felt like I was looking through a sepia filter as I jogged over a carpet of fallen leaves, umber from decay. Yellowish grass lay dormant between ash-colored trees, whose limbs fanned the cloudy sky like old lace. Even the squirrels were washed out, their dusty coats camouflage in that landscape. Charlie was the only flash of color I could see, bounding joyously after them.
On the first official day of spring, I was driving to yoga and listening to the Storme Warren show on the Highway. Storme, MC and Tommy were talking about the biggest indicators of spring for them, and Tommy (the token millennial and recent Georgetown grad) had the best answer. He said that for him spring had truly arrived on the day that all the girls on campus decided to wear sundresses, like they all got the same memo or something. I smiled to myself in the car when I heard that. To him, a bevy of southern belles suddenly appearing in colorful dresses was probably a lot like seeing a field of flowers that had just bloomed.
In yoga that day the theme was decluttering, although our teacher kept pronouncing it “declattering” in her Israeli accent. It sounded better her way, and took on a deeper meaning for me. If only I could clear out the clatter in my head as easily as I cleared out the clutter in my closet. Worry is too good at hiding in my mind, then coming out in the middle of the night like pots and pans banging to wake me. But spring is a season of shedding what we don’t need anymore, to make room for new growth. It might be time for me to let go of some things.
It was still cold enough for snow flurries when I took both dogs around the block later this afternoon, which is all that Hank can manage these days. Charlie and I have to go slowly, and stop often for him. In the flowerbed on the corner where the dogs like to sniff, I saw the green stems of crocuses peeking through the beauty bark. Despite the winter temperature, I knew that one day soon the trees would explode into bloom, turning into a parade of color overnight, like girls in sundresses.
Comments