Today I have actually reached the point of feeling that I can actually use the word ‘spring’ officially without a) crying at the same time b) using some kind of prefix like “what the $&@#$ is up with….” and c) expecting there to be some kind of weather related retribution that will bring at least 10 cms of snow in the next 24 hours. It’s been that kind of spring.
A few times in the last couple of months I have wandered outside, my face turned up to the sky and basked in the warm spring-like sunshine and thought to myself ‘this is it’. Of course the next day my face was firmly inside because I didn’t want a foot of snow all over it. Seriously. There was a lot of snow this spring. A lot. Enough to bury my soul in. Science fact.
But the weather forecast is finally releasing us from our wintery gloom and predicting 20 degrees on the weekend. 20 degrees! 20!!! Degrees!!!! Sorry I know that is an irrational amount of exclamation marks but holy cow, I’m ready for spring. I know I say that every spring and I mean it every spring but this year I really, really mean it. A lot.
Despite the mildness of this winter past, especially when compared with the face peeling cold of the previous two winters, it has still felt long and dreary and long. Did I say long? Because it felt long. And, as it does every year, my foolish British soul peeks it’s head from behind it’s metaphorical spiritual duvet sometime in March and starts saying annoying things like “Isn’t it time for the children to be outside yet?” And I, of course, reply “Shut up soul! You do this every year! It’s going to suck for at least another 6 weeks and look now it’s snowing again.” Usually I weep at that point, or face plant into a cake. Or both if I’m honest; this year was no different.
But some desperate optimism about the weather must have caught on because Stephen and I spent some time on the weekend starting seeds, little brown packages of hope that they are; plopping them into warm, moist soil and nurturing them, just as they will sustain us through the coming months. Over the last few days we’ve watched and marvelled as the first sparks of life emerge in plastic trays in the dining room of our house. I love how life works that way, miraculous and utterly mundane.
We’ve had increasingly warm days this week, slightly stymied by my littlest bean coming down with a yucky tummy bug, but we are all emerging into the sunlight a little mystified and a lot happier. There have been moments where the house has fallen silent as the boys run off outside for a bit (Sometimes with some encouragement from Mummy. Or a lot of encouragement. Some people would use the word threats but it’s such an ugly term.) I’ve looked around a little, momentarily unoccupied and been a little unsure what to do. We are coming into a new season not just of the year but of life, but that’s a post for another day and thoughts for another hour.
So as I peek underneath the condensation clouded lids of my seeds trays and as I wander, oh so casually, out to the polytunnel so recently cleared out by the lovely men in my life, my inner eye is beginning to dream of abundance. Though there are only specks here and there and the memory of snow is a starkly recent one, my dreaming life is painted with green. Green and the scent of honey on the air.