Spring has claimed me with a violent fever and aching bones...with sun-warmed skin and fragrant tendrils of hair. My time now belongs to the world outside--raking away at the sad debris of Winter--cutting back bleached grasses and clearing out all traces of last season.
Rosie digs in the dirt--Boy-o's lightsabers battle rosebushes and tree trunks--Petunia reads her book on magic cut by the shadows of clouds overhead. No other time of year can work me like Spring can. I love Summer--but, don't long for it like this. I appreciate Fall and the van Gogh blush on the branches--enjoy the crispness of early Winter and the carnival parade of holidays across the calendar. But, nothing infects me like the turn back towards fair weather.
I am lucky enough, living where I do, to catch these breaths of Spring while Winter dies out slowly. Though someone forgot to tell these bees, ants, and spiders setting up house all around me--Winter will re-assert itself. Snow, once again, will likely fall--if only for a moment--if only to remind us of the true date...of who exactly is still in charge.
So, today, I am celebrating this temperate weather. My writing deadlines linger casually somewhere along the ends of the month like awkward teenage girls waiting for direction or some clue from the boys they like. My new non-fiction proposal is done and needs only the prompt of an envelope and some first class postage. My novel sits here beside me--a toddler now at 18 months old. The words are normally just about as easy to reign in and control as a child of the same age. But today, I am a frazzled mama-writer enjoying the light--ignoring the mud pies and rock flinging--the whining and the sticky face. Oddly enough this terrible toddler brainchild has lapsed into a calm lull and slackened beside me, contented just to be--just for a moment.
So have I.