March 7, 2018

Spring has sprung! And it sprang for me, as far as I’m concerned, on Tuesday, February 27th. The temperature when I awoke at seven a.m. that morning was a few degrees above freezing—but that wasn’t what told me it was spring time.

The sun was shining, and the sky was a pale blue, just a shade up from winter pale blue, but that wasn’t what told me it was spring. The ground was free of snow and ice, but no, that wasn’t it, either.

It was the bird song. Last Tuesday I heard those wonderful, welcome birds that greet each day with such joy, they must sing about it, making the most beautiful music in the world.

Here in Southern Ontario, many of our birds migrate over winter. Those birds who remain behind, it seems to me, don’t sing all that often from October to March. Fancifully, I imagine that to be because they don’t want to alert near-by predators of their presence, thus becoming dinner. Food is a bit scarce for nature’s creatures in the winter, after all. Just ask Mr. Ashbury. He is forever buying bird seed for the birds as well as sunflower seeds and peanuts for the squirrels. Mr. Tuffy, who loves nothing more than barking at the squirrels, is very happy that he does so.

But I digress.

On last Tuesday morning, the avian music sounded sweet and happy. A veritable symphony of feathered ones filled the air with their own particular celebration of the coming new season. I heard robins, wrens, a red-winged black bird and even a killdeer who joined in the chorus. I didn’t hear any chickadees, not yet. They, I suspect, will be back soon.

Yes, I know the calendar says spring doesn’t arrive until the 20th or 21st of March. Setting a date specific on paper? That’s just part of our puny efforts, us humans, to manage nature. Nature goes her own way. It doesn’t matter one whit that by Friday, three days after this wondrous concert, we received more snow. Received more snow? We experienced a blizzard! But, as I said, that doesn’t matter. It certainly doesn’t matter that it’s snowing hard right now. Nothing else matters. Many of the birds have arrived home, and they’ve returned to their happy task of welcoming each new dawn, and I felt the beginning of my favorite time of year, and that’s that.

I’ve always loved spring the most. I love the first sound of robins singing, and the first sight of those buds lending a shimmering aura of green to the barren tree branches, an aura made of hope and promise. I love the first sight of those perennial flowers poking their green shoots above ground, as if having a look around to see if the snow is gone, or not. And often apparently not caring in the end, because they poke their heads up anyway, and begin to grow.

I love the scent of the early blooming flowers, and the parade of blossoms that march across my yard—crocuses and hyacinths and narcissi; daffodils and tulips and finally, lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs and peonies. I love the anticipation of spring, and the reality of it. I love the smell of freshly mown grass, and as I drive in rural areas with my windows down, the amazing aroma of what we used to call sweet grasses—no, not the native plant by that name. In my neck of the woods, as a kid, it referred to the harvest of the winter wheat.

I’m already looking forward to those few precious days when I can breathe in the scent of lilacs and lily-of-the-valley together in one blissfully aromatic inhalation, as I did right here on my front porch for the first time in decades last year. That was first time I’d revisited that fragrance since my years out in the country. I’m hopeful it won’t be the last.

Despite having moments of doubt, worry and a wisp of pessimism now and again, I am at heart an optimist. I sometimes drive those in my family crazy because I refuse to surrender hope. I’ve had people tell me, from the depths of their misery that I have no idea how bad life can really be, how horrible it can get.

 Friends, I do know how bad it can be and how horrible it can get. But I will never surrender to the darker emotions. I will never surrender hope. Because I did, for a time years ago, and it felt atrocious. Yes, life tests us, and it confounds us, and it slashes and singes our bodies as well as our spirits. But the dark times don’t come to stay, they truly come to pass.

Wise philosophers down through the ages have urged us to look to the natural world to behold the face of God. I’ve done that and found hope and resilience and renewal, the heart and soul of faith and optimism.

And it’s never so vibrant as it is, cradled within the reality of the perennial spring that greets us each and every year.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury