©April 2002
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.