One month ago, I wrote that if Spring did not soon come, I would dig through the soil and pull the tulips up myself. I wrote that I’d take hold of the sun and cradle her close so the days would feel longer, so she would finally melt the snow that had overstayed its welcome and turn the grass to a shade that feels alive.
I need green in my days. I need wildflowers and the smell of Spring mud, bluebirds and their orange bellies and their holy voices. I need dandelions. Not to wish on their seeds - for they owe me nothing. I need their whispery stems and petals than stain, their untamed abundance…their rebellion against a human’s taste for control.
One week before the recognized first day of Spring, I decided that it had officially landed. Walking through the woods, I fingered the tiny buds bursting from the branches, felt the softness of a thawed Earth beneath my feet, and made sure not to step on the hungry plants shimmying up through the ground.
A few days ago, and now well into Spring, I stood barefoot on that same patch of drenched Earth, letting the mud seep between my toes. The stream water ran cold over my shins and one of my most beloved humans was walking the sunlit trail ahead of me.
Today, I read that Jupiter has stationed itself in retrograde and apparently this means the time for gratitude and faith renewal has opened. So I’m praying to the tulips that are days away from blooming, to the bluebirds and the worms, and to the tall, unruly clusters of eager grass. I’m praying on the euphoric fortune of not only existing in nature’s most vivacious season, but also for sharing it with someone who will press their barefoot soles into the Earth just to feel the mud.