Carol Jane Remsburg
Spring really is here. It arrived undercover last week many days after the calendar stated it was so. Betwixt times we were blessed with rains that had long avoided us. It was chilly and cool and wet. They called for nearly the same this weekend dousing my hopes of finally getting the lawn mowed and perhaps some line-dried linens.
But a surprise happened.
It didn't rain and it didn't get cold or even chilly. The local birds are more than in a dither; they are delirious in their screeching. The jays, robins, wrens, sparrows, blackbirds, starlings, finches, and even the errant cowbirds are all a dither. It's a glorious cacophony in tribute to the delight of the warmth, the sun, and the bounty of life. Spring does that to all of us and not just the birds.
The din from the birds has been deafening. I don't blame them but on Saturday's I have much work to do—such as the mundane household chores. However once released from those tethers, a wander out of doors is sublime. It matters not that it's supposed to rain. It doesn't even matter that I haven't cut the grass yet. Everything is green and growing and budding and warm. The ecstasies of the birds don't need to tell me that, although they do and will continue—all the while blotching my vehicle with splots.
It's my guess they were too giddy to notice and to be kind about their deliveries.
Ah yet, it IS spring.
There are those that reside in warmer climes throughout the year. They never get the true experience of the seasonal change. Each is different and as much a part of ourselves as our eyebrows. Summer makes us expansive and then drowsy as the heat beats us down. Autumn provides the burrowing instinct and a freshening of the spirit. Winter, when it actually comes, gives us not only the holidays but a reawakening of our souls and the quietude in the aftermath of restoral. Spring is the season that wakes us up. It wakes everything up in a raucous gaudy way. Spring is when seemingly dead things come to life, and into vibrant life.
My little one used to ask me why at Easter the colors were pastel, the bright pinks, greens, yellows, blues . . . This year she didn't have to. Just before our first thunderstorm a few weeks ago, I took her out on the porch to survey the view. The nearby fields hadn't yet been tilled and were a riot of purple, the many dogwood trees in the area were displaying their pinks and whites. The jonquils and daffodils and forsythia were screaming their yellows, and everything else was budding the green that only a Leprechaun could envy.
Ah yes, spring has finally sprung and it's glory isn't something you have to question. This is the time that those who normally hide indoors and watch their TVs or play with their computers will sneak outside. If we put together their shock and delight, it would be so loud all in the world could hear it.
Spring is indeed a wonder. Wander on outside and bask in the glory of such a simple pleasure. It's priceless, free, and totally glorious.
I am thankful for the gift; I hope you are too.