An Eye to Spring

This is not a lament, though we have just lived through the largest blizzard on record — by every measure: snowfall, wind, the long howl of it. For now, my state is shuttered. When Mother Nature decides to stretch her authority, I am gently reminded who truly has the final say.

As I fold my sweaters back into their familiar rotation, my thoughts lean toward spring. The other day I came upon a photograph on my phone — my backyard patio last summer (see above – it’s humble but it’s mine). There sat my pretty settee, cushions plumped just so, an open book resting face-down, mid-chapter and much enjoyed. The flowers were lavish and unapologetic, especially the large begonia I buy each year. Nothing behaves more generously in a container than a begonia. I favor the lipstick shades — coral, hot pink, watermelon. I don’t think I had even finished planting when I took that picture; there was still more abundance to come — herbs, geraniums, another pot or two of trailing green. It was a beautiful little haven, a soft place to land when I wasn’t happily idling away hours at the beach or pool.

In the deep of winter — whether the kind that barrels in with drifts to the windows (and I have never, ever seen snow quite like this), or the winter that settles quietly in the heart when something goes awry, when someone we love is hurting, or when we lose what we hold dear — it is the promise of spring that steadies us. The thought of it just over the horizon. And, of course, the prayers and kindness of the good souls in our lives. We must never forget them.

I find myself dreaming of sunlight on my shoulders, the way I always do this time of year. But it is not only the light I crave — it is the warmth. To feel a tender, balm-soft breeze drift across bare arms. To step outside without bracing. Those days are coming. I know they are.

In the meantime, I am tending to small anticipations of a gentler season, even as I marvel at the towering white banks encircling my home.

Along with that patio photograph, I rediscovered a film that once meant the world to me: See You in the Morning.  The moment I heard its opening notes — Nat King Cole singing “When I Fall in Love” — I tucked myself into a cradle of blankets and heating pads and surrendered to a tender, nostalgic afternoon. I can remember exactly who I was when that film first found me in the theater. I went four times before I could own it on VHS, and later on DVD. Some stories simply stay with us.

Though I have never been patient enough for audiobooks, I slipped a CD from the library into my car’s player this winter. What a gift it has been to listen to Mrs. Dalloway while idling at the pharmacy drive-thru or running brief errands. The story waits faithfully for me each time I turn the key. Some narrators are so melodic they feel like companions. I’ve even borrowed from the children’s shelves — The Secret Garden and The Railway Children among them — and listening in these small bursts has been a quiet winter joy.

I have dedicated one of my small journals to “Spring Things,” an ongoing list of homekeeping, gardening, and decorating ideas I don’t want to lose once the busy season arrives. I am planning an Easter basket for my coffee table — hyacinths, daffodils, and pussy willows gathered together in a simple arrangement. I am browsing for everyday silverware that feels sturdy and lovely in the hand, and loose teas in flavors that hint at blossom and sun.

So yes, the snow is high and the winds have had their say. But I am keeping company with memory, with story, with small preparations. Spring is already beginning — quietly, faithfully — in my thoughts.