Giving Spring its Flowers

Call it false spring if you must, but last weekend I sat on my deck in 60-degree weather, sunshine on my bare arms, and that's good enough for me. I watched a series of small planes circle to and from the regional airport, and guessed that it was a nice day for student pilots to get in some flying hours. I always like watching planes, but on a spring or summer day, watching them soar through a bright blue sky seems to herald a wide world of possibility. I started to feel giddy, again, about making plans to travel later in the year. My last flight was a miserable drag, as my lungs clouded up with pneumonia, but those small planes that were visible from my house looked so carefree that I started to remember how exciting it can be to fly to a destination.

Everything in spring becomes a harbinger of something better. My overgrown, soggy garden beds are no longer a disappointing reminder of the cleanup I didn't do after last year's growing season. They are nutrient repositories, ready to sprout new crops of strawberries and raspberries and the one vegetable my kid likes to eat (fresh peas). The garden is also a provider of outdoor therapy, an excuse to spend more time in the yard as the weather gets warmer and planting deadlines approach. I start to remember the happy hours I've spent out there in years past, listening to music on a weatherproof Bluetooth speaker, digging and fertilizing and harvesting food while my son plays in the dirt instead of on his iPad.

My dread of weekends slowly starts to recede in the spring. I appreciate the breaks from work (and wish I could have more), but when I feel trapped and uninspired by rainy weather, it can be a challenge to get through two full days with a little kid who needs entertainment. Sunshine wakes up the rest of the world and brings farmers markets, festivals, and trips to the park that don't result in muddy shoes and cold hands.

All of my senses seem to wake up and amplify the beauty around me. I notice the bright petals of crocuses and daffodils enlivening my front yard, and feel a renewed appreciation for our plain house in a nondescript neighborhood. As my skin gets warmed by the sun rising toward equinox, it evokes a flood of sense memories of all the summer hikes I've taken over the years, and the bike rides and neighborhood walks and backyard hangouts and camping trips. It's one part nostalgia, two parts reminder that adventure is out there waiting.

The smell of fresh fish on sale at the downtown market is not just a preview of the dinner I plan to cook, but a summons to the Oregon coast, where my son and I like to play chicken with the incoming waves. The vineyard-studded hills and piney forests on the outskirts of town become more than just a woodsy backdrop to our daily city drudgery; they come alive and start to beckon.

Some jokester on social media wrote, and I'm paraphrasing, "I like to think I'm a being with complex thoughts, but all it takes for me to be happy is sunshine. Turns out I'm basically a leaf." I chuckled at this because I relate. Everything feels better when the spring sun comes out, even sitting on my couch doing not much of anything. When it's gloomy outside, sitting around the house feels like involuntary hibernation. But relaxing on a sun-warmed sofa, book in hand, feels like contentment.