As this never-ending winter breathes its last gasps of frigid air and heaves a few last inches of unwelcome snow every few days, Spring waits, coiled, inevitable, yet invisible. I know this to be true, even though the very idea of Spring is starting to seem like a fable we amuse the boys with as we read library books about the seasons. Is it my imagination, or do my children look authentically skeptical when I talk to them about the daffodil bulbs that will bloom in a month or so? Surely, we thought there’d be evidence to impress them with by now.
Everyone I know seems just a little depressed these days, a little struck by weary disbelief at the recent weather, which was actually quite beautiful, just untimely. Last weekend brought a fairytale wonderland to Minnesota, full of powdered sugar-coated trees, thick blinding flurries, heavy clouds of deep steely grays mixed with spots of blue sky, making for beautiful strange light felt in the back of my neck. This is exactly the type of weather that would have been so welcome in mid-December, but only the kids seemed to appreciate the several inches that came just after the snow that had laid for months had finally started to fade to spots of ever-so-slightly greening grass. Snowmen abound in our neighborhood this year, evidence that kids have had the more optimistic view that we might as well do something with all this snow. One family a mile North of our house has even created an entire installation of snow creatures in the front yard, some of which were spray painted various colors. A brown cat, a pink Easter bunny. If the little springtime animals won’t come and assure us of the annual fecund end to our frigid Minnesota hibernation, a can of spray paint doesn’t quite do it for me as a substitution, but I suppose I needn’t judge another’s attempt to make the best of things. My own attempts seem to involve a lot of tea, sleep, and complaining.
I have a package of spinach seeds sitting in my kitchen cupboard, and my hand reaches for it, fingers the substantial seeds two or three times a day, willing the white away and the ground to thaw just enough in one of my raised beds that I can suspend an old storm window over the seeds and semi-frozen dirt to make for a workable cold-frame.
So close. Water drips from the roof so fast it runs like rivers into basements and down the street into full-to-capacity storm drains. Birds chirp the way they only do in springtime, looking rather desperately for food and finding only melted puddles of water, their little mating clocks ticking the same way they always do regardless of our relentless winter, hard, under feathers. Buds swell despite the cold and snow, coiled, like a shotgun of life, of rescue, of a promise fulfilled like a fable. It is here, we just haven’t been invited quite yet.
(P.S.Fond greetings to my Dutch family, who have also just experienced an unseasonably cold Easter!)
(P.P.S. I'll try to add some more pictures and do an update on the boys' birthday and the nice visit with my family soon. Does anyone have any decent blowing-out-the-birthday-cake pics? We didn't get any, so please e-mail me if you did!)
