Spring arrived in the Pacific NW on the appointed day and week in fine fashion with a few 60º days, rapturous robin songs, crocuses popping out of the ground…and then snow? Not a lot. It soon melted, but it startled. Rain predictably returned. But the mornings have hovered just above freezing, the chill of winter not quite ready to take leave. Spring, like me these days, seems to be struggling to settle into a rhythm. Or maybe the struggle is actually the rhythm with a bit of improv thrown in and if I listen closely enough I can hear the undertones.
Lessons from the Pandemic: What Does Hope Look Like These Days?
In the Pacific NW come February, early March, we get our annual spring preview. Clouds practice social distancing, the Sun teases us with a splash of warmth and we shed at least one sweater layer as light streaks through the blue expanse. Some even brave laying on the grass—arms, feet and legs exposed. Sure, it will be below freezing in a few days, but the reprieve is luscious. The trees know it is temporary and keep bud tips closed except for the cherries. Their vulnerability is our delight. Sure enough, the rain returns with a winter bite. But the first rain after “preview” offers a promise. As I step out my door and inhale, the aroma of daffodil and daphne odora saturates the air. It is a shift from a winter rain, reminding me of when Grief makes that shift from deep, early loss. The pungent scent has traveled in the droplets. Little Hope sacs splashing at my feet.
