Something about the liminal space between winter and spring makes me feel uneasy. It’s like this quiet discomfort has rooted itself deep in my belly and is working its way up my throat. February stretched on for what felt like an eternity. A river resistant to thaw. I was hopeful for March — hungry for it. “In like a lion, out like a lamb,” they say. But I still feel the sharp canines of March hovering around my throat and I am desperate for tenderness, for soft wool.
This in-between time makes me feel restless and eager to get out of the house. I have a tendency to be more of an introverted homebody, but the tightrope between winter and spring makes my body itch for different surroundings. On the days when it’s mid-60’s and sunny I often find myself driving to my favorite coffee shop. I turn up my Spotify playlist and roll the windows down while I drive past little free libraries and people walking their dogs. I order my usual iced lavender oat milk latte and take my usual seat at the bar by the window. It feels nice to have “my” coffee shop and a “usual” order. It makes me feel slightly more human on the days where I don’t feel like much of anything at all. I work and I write and I enjoy being surrounded by other people and overhearing little snippets of their lives.
Last week I discovered a new (to me) used bookstore and spent hours browsing from top to bottom and back again. I always love used bookstores because I find it so fascinating the books people choose to give away. I especially love finding little annotations scribbled into the margins. Reading them feels akin to peeking inside someone’s diary. You never know if you’re going to get a simple underline or their deepest darkest secret. My own annotations tend to lean toward the deep dark secret side of things, so others giving up theirs always feels like a small act of shared vulnerability.
I’ve been taking an astrology-based yoga class lately where the instructor talks about the stars and the planets and what their current alignment means for our bodies and minds. Last time, they talked about Pisces season and something about the moon that I wish I could remember. I think it was something about being in a place of waiting, of juxtaposition. It feels good to spend an hour existing in gentle breathing and movement with strangers — to have something else to focus on instead of letting my thoughts spin wildly like a spool of loose thread. The instructor reminds us to go at our own pace, to modify things however we need to, to close our eyes and not worry about how we look — to just feel it.
I can’t help but feel, despite all of this distraction, that I am still waiting. Waiting for spring, waiting for something. There are knots from the root of this seed in my stomach. I am happy to have more sunlight, a few extra minutes in each day. But it feels like just as I’m starting to get used to the sun – to expect the warmth – a cold spell swoops in and dumps snow at my doorstep. It feels like nature is wagging its finger at me for wanting too much too soon. “Ah, not yet.”
Last week, when we had a foot of snow in Denver, I got a text from my mom back in Virginia saying “it snowed here too!” followed by a picture of tulip magnolia blossoms littered across the sun-streaked yard of my childhood home.
I grew up watching that tree bloom in front of my bedroom window every spring, and near the end of every winter my mom laments on how she hopes it doesn’t bloom too soon. “I don’t want it to get zapped,” she’ll say. I’m happy to see it got the timing right this year.
Today is the first day of spring and I feel cautiously optimistic. I am trying to let myself feel little moments of joy without letting them be swallowed by apprehension. As Mary Oliver said, “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it.” I’m trying to let myself give in.
Waiting for spring is a lesson in patience. It’s a reminder that we can’t rush the things we want any more than we can rush the pansies and tulips to bloom. Too soon, and they’ll get bitten by the frost. Nature knows when it’s time and we have to trust that, or at least try to. The same applies to us. Sometimes we’ll get it wrong and end up with frostbite. But sometimes it really is safe to finally stick your head up through the dirt, to breathe. I am still trying to learn how to tell the difference.
“the sharp canines of March hovering around my throat”!!!!! So beautiful and so relatable!