This might just be my favorite time of year. The temperatures are unpredictable—you never know if it’ll be a scarf-and-hat day or a t-shirt day. The air carries a restless energy, as if the whole world is ready to shake off winter’s weight. And if you look closely, you’ll see it—life is on the verge of bursting through.
The other day I was poking around in my yard and was stopped in my tracks. Among a messy tangle of leaves, broken branches, and storm debris, I saw bright yellow forsythia blooms peeking through every gap and crevice. I’d forgotten about that bush in the corner, buried under the clutter of seasons. Ben had trimmed it back in the summer and left the branches to lie, and after the hurricane in October, we added more to the pile. I had written it off as a pile of compost, at best. Yet there it was—not just surviving, but spreading its golden blooms, reaching beyond where we’d left it.
Life pushes through the hard earth, through the forgotten. Even when all seems still, when the absence of light and warmth lingers a little too long, life stirs beneath the surface. And then, one day, the robins hop across the damp ground, filling their bellies. Bright yellow narcissus swaying in the wind, bold and unbothered. Trees stretches red-tinged buds toward the sky, as if they never once doubted spring would come.
Winter is not forever.
