3: a time or season of growth or development; specifically : the season between winter and summer comprising in the northern hemisphere usually the months of March, April, and May or as reckoned astronomically extending from the March equinox to the June solstice
For many people I know, spring is their favorite time of year. They love the longer days, the blooming flowers, the warmer weather. I like most of these things, too, but spring is not my favorite time of year. This is partly a physical reality. My recent retreat was a wonderful time of solitude, quiet and rest for my soul, but a few hours after returning, the whole family left for B's soccer practice. I could easily have elected to stay home with A & K while J took B, but I had been away for long enough and wanted our whole family to enjoy the nice day together. The best of intentions....
By the time we left soccer practice, where pollen was literally swirling in the air, I had a headache that would take me four hours to alleviate. This was merely a taste of things to come and the warm weather that followed on Monday and Tuesday resulted in alternately dull and sharp headaches. Today the weather is blessedly cold and I feel much better.
But I know warm weather and spring's pain will return. In many ways, I think this is how it should be. Giving birth is hard. And we kid ourselves or protect ourselves to think that nature's cyclical rebirth comes without pain of any kind. Sure, plants, trees and bushes don't experience pain as we do, but it's worth pondering.
Just today, I was talking with an arborist at school while waiting to pick up A & B. He pointed out a limb on a tree in the school yard that is dead and dangerous. He said he's considered putting a sign on the tree that says, "Stand here at your own peril." What are the dead limbs I need to remove from myself before they take people out on the way down?
We do finally have daffodils blooming in our yard, but they were a bit slower to make their appearance than many in our neighborhood. I don't know enough about flowers to know why and I don't care enough to investigate it, but I kind of like having late blooming flowers. I think I've been a bit of a late bloomer. It's taken me more than three decades to really know and accept who I am. So it doesn't bother me for my flowers to be a bit late to the party.
A final note about spring. While A, B and K wait for spring's flowers with excitement each year, I really care very little about flowers. Not long ago, I said to some friends as we talked about gardening, "If you can't eat it, what's the point?" I get much more excited about the vegetable garden that's going up in the back. I think that says something about me and what I want to be. I love beauty in my life, but what I really want to leave is a legacy of bearing life-giving fruit that sustains others.