Spring is the best time of year. Hands down. No contest. Sorry other seasons, you’re fired. You can have Christmas with its goodwill toward men, but the burden of gifting is an albatross and ruins you. Forget back to school, even though the weather remains spectacular and the kids are academic prisoners, giving you a few hours to yourself, you’re just no competitor. Apologies to fall, although, of course I’d be a robot not to be mesmerized by the array of Crayola 64 foliage, but it’s just a harbinger of dwindling light and cold temps, my shoulders pushed up around my ears for months, while wrapped in my sleeping bag coat 24/7. Brrrrrrrr.
It’s spring that renews and refreshes like a Summer’s Eve Douche commercial. Every morning, a new tree bursts into fertile green beginner foliage, that will give into a mature leaf before your very eyes (“hey, wasn’t that tree naked yesterday?”). Each morning, another flower pops up, as if a mysterious someone has come in the night and stuck them in the ground from a store bought bouquet. Every afternoon, the sun stays out just a little bit longer so you can have more play time.
This is the season of possibility. Where it all seems new again. My energy surges. I put away my boots, hoping not to tempt the cold, because you never know in New England, but I am confident. I move forward into a new time, a hopeful time, with gratitude and Hallmark card thoughts. I will make new strides. I can do anything—-the fucking sun is out again.