I've changed my mind about spring

An awakening of the most furtive sort

At least one of us is a big fan of spring

I’ve changed my mind about spring.

Where I live, people are either winter people, or summer people, or fall people, but no one is a spring person. Why would you be?

Spring means mud and snow and rain and mud and snow and rain in a maddening combination. The robins huddle near their nests in the fields, feathers fluffed, backs turned to the wind. The same wind buffets red-winged blackbirds who cling to fence posts, too busy trying to stay warm to sing their songs. Even the daffodils look forlorn when they finally come up, set as they are against all the brown.

I feel like those robins during spring. I hunker down. I try to stay busy with inside chores. But this week, I forced myself to stay out in the damp, to linger long enough in the barn to run a shedding comb over my horse, Lucy. She didn’t appear to be shedding, and yet the hair came away in staggering amounts—with just a few swipes of a toothed metal tool, I had enough hair to fill a pillowcase. She turned to me in appreciation, as she does, pressing her nose into my palm.

As she huffed her breath into my hand, I wondered how it felt to be in her body during spring. Did she feel the exact moment when her winter hair released from the follicles? Does she know that that feeling means she’s made it through the winter? All of the animals on our farm have been acting differently—at times, they are unusually playful and rambunctious. Other times, they are contemplative, their faces turned to the wind, ears focused on something far-off that only they can perceive.

Spring, to me, is just a continuation of winter. The same snow, the same thick gloves, the same heavy boots. I don’t perceive that anything has changed. And yet. Beneath the snow, a crocus blooms, and I don’t notice. Within the maple trees, the sap runs, and I don’t see. In our top field, a patch of snow has most likely melted, and dozens of deer are no doubt gathered there to furiously nibble the first grass they’ve seen in months, but they would scatter if I tried to look. While I am enduring, spring is seeking, searching, marching forward.

When the first rain of the year arrives, it is startling in its sonic intensity, raindrops on the roof so distracting that even the kids get quiet and listen. Oh, they say. I forgot about rain. I think, Oh. Here comes the mud.

The mud is annoying and exhausting. Every step is accompanied by a backward slide. But then there’s the moment when the kids pull off their shoes and socks and step onto the bare ground in their bare feet. The mud is icy between their toes, which will grow numb within minutes, but they won’t complain. They shriek with delight, little animals finally released from the layers of wool, down, and rubber. I stand on the porch and watch them, my feet safely encased in my shoes. I notice how the breeze blows across my bare arms and makes the tiny hairs there bend and sway. It tingles, itches. I consider grabbing a sweater but I don’t. I let myself feel it.

It’s a misery, spring. It’s wet and uncomfortable and glum. But it’s also an awakening of the most furtive sort. It’s a wonder.