It’s Spring. The bright, lemon-yellow necklace I wore to church today prompted several to remark on how “springy” it looked. After church I headed to Southern Horticulture; mulch was calling my name; and a man unbeknownst to me approached with the words, “That yellow necklace is so springy and happy.” I reminded him that it was, after all, the first day of Spring, and he seemed happier just knowing that winter was officially over. (Non-Florida readers, I realize that the first day of Spring in the Sunshine State borders on oxymoronic . . . but humor me. Over the past two months I was forced to wear a heavy sweater on multiple occasions.) Spring.
It’s Spring. Today’s Palm Sunday reading included the description of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, praying for Grace to endure what He would face the coming days. His followers, nervous and fearful, were obviously on edge. In fact, when a Roman soldier approached Jesus in order to arrest Him, one of Jesus’ crew whipped out his sword and lopped off the offender’s ear. (Are you kidding me?) But thankfully Jesus stepped in with, “Oh please. Stop. Put your sword away.” Jesus then went one step further and reattached the soldier’s ear. He reconciled the situation. Spring. A time of reconciliation and hope, especially if you’re the one getting your ear slashed . . . or your opinion criticized . . . or your status ridiculed. Spring.
It’s Spring and I can feel it; can’t you? I don’t know why it was so noticeable but today was filled with signs of new life. From my yellow, almost tacky, accessory to the smiles on the face of fellow compost buyers, one could just sense that Winter was over and new life was taking over. Spring.
It’s Spring. Devan and Nathan hit the road yesterday, another University review in their sites. New beginnings. Senioritis. Nathan forging ahead to new adventures and life experiences and life; his life. The temptation to be sad at his moving on is overwhelmed by the joy in his journey. New life in so many ways. Spring.
It’s Spring. Our sandy Vilano Beach soil called my name and I responded with compost, mulch, clay pots and loving kindness. Mexican Petunias. Sea Grass. Dune Daisies. Ferns. Zinnia seeds from my dear Patty and zinnia seeds from a Vermont fall. Flowers-that-look-pretty-but-I don’t-remember-their-names. Sweating and loving every stinky droplet. Dirt under my nails. Spring.
It’s Spring. My first day on the beach with chair and book and sweet tea, rewarding myself after said yard work. The air, a bit cool, teased with hints of summer when the sun peeked out from the clouds and kissed my skin. The book seemed more interesting; the waves more inviting; the tea a bit sweeter. Spring.
It’s Spring. A dear friend came to mind so I texted her.
“How are you doing?”
“Thinking of you.”
“Excited for changes coming your way.”
She didn’t text back; she called. For forty-four minutes we talked and laughed and cried and shared our hearts. It was so good to hear her voice, hints of St. George Island and Panhandle in every syllable. She’ll retire soon. She’s falling in love with her remarkable husband all over again. She’ll have more time for her amazing grandchildren, angel-children all. She’s entering another stage, just like a butterfly. Spring.
It’s Spring. A series of text messages with other dear ones, friends since forever, making me laugh with irreverent anecdotes, Beatle’s lyrics and hope. Spring.
It’s Spring. Jack is coming home for Easter and I am as giddy as can be. More than giddy. How I love this man-child whose name is Jack and Ngari and Austin and Veatch . . . how I’ve missed him . . . how proud I am of his willingness to look in the mirror and embrace who he is and what he’s becoming . . . how I cannot wait to have him within arm’s reach. Spring.
It’s Spring . . . and I am not alone in my wonder and joy. Mark Twain felt it as well.
“It’s spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you’ve got it, you want—oh, you don’t quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!”
Yes, it’s Spring and I want it so.