This morning when I stepped outside I could smell it. Spring. Not full on fresh green shoots of life spring, but the first faint scent of life returning to the frozen wasteland. We have not seen the grass in our yard since November, and make no mistake, there’s still a half foot of snow and ice covering it. Assuming it’s still there.
But winter has lost its heart. Every day the temperature creeps a little further north of freezing before retreating back overnight. Everyday spring liberates another branch, another rooftop, another driveway of its icy cocoon. It won’t be long now.
The water runs down the icicles, and steams in rivulets down the gutters of the street. It pools in the low points, and carries with it all the salt, and grime of another winter. As long and brutal as a Minnesota winter can be, I cannot imagine a life without 4 seasons. Without the great cycle of seasons to mark the years time would blur into one long indistinguishable greyness. Is it any wonder that the word “season” means both cycle and spice?
Life requires movement. To stagnate is to die.