One audaciously, foolishly happy blog

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Tenaciously poking her purple head out of the ground, this lone stubborn crocus seems undaunted by the week’s crazy-fierce winter storm.  A little beat up, yes, but she’s not giving up. 

After all, the spring equinox has arrived.

A good friend’s first grandchild was born on the very first day of spring this week, a beautiful boy who was delivered alongside cotton sheets and open windows and seed catalogs.

Forget about the stork, this lad arrived on the wings of thousands of cranes soaring above the Platte River – to a soundtrack playing the chorus of dawn’s rowdy birdsong.

He entered this world with fresh air and fresh hope – greeted with bouquets of daffodils popping like the color of butter.

I’ve been whining and bemoaning the fact that this is my blog week, woe is me, the world is coming to an end.

Then I gave myself a challenge.

Against all odds, I would outrageously, foolishly write a completely happy blog.

I would write about cocky robins scouring through my front yard as tiny grass sprouts have started sneaking into my dreary lawn of gray-brown.  About teachers still teaching and nurses still healing and electric workers restoring power.  About flower stands cropping up across the parking lots of Lincoln and nurseries bursting at the seams – timid buds lining still-bare tree branches – woodpeckers drumming somewhere in the distance – the splash of sunlight making us delightfully tipsy.

And the scent, oh the scent.

My granddaughter, Scout, just finished her school science project, choosing to study the smells of the four seasons – trapping each one in a jar for her classmates to sniff.  

Summer, fall, winter.   

Then spring, a jar practically dripping with the earthy, evocative smell of soil, wet leaves, rain … and, of course, something strangely musky and completely mystical.

A friend of mine had sinus surgery this week and today I imagine her stepping outdoors – finally remembering – finally inhaling huge, mighty intoxicating breaths of spring.

And I’m guessing my dog, Pip, has her nose in the air – experiencing spring fever like I’ve never quite witnessed, a lunatic mutt zigzagging around the back yard with an insane, giddy fervor, leaping into the air as if she truly believes she can nab March madness. 

Long ago, I lived in Florida for three years, surrounded by people migrating from up north, drawn to those warm, mellow and predictable days.

I grew weary of the monotony, as the cycle of seasons has always been one of the most glorious miracles I know, embracing the flow of Mother Nature’s impetuous moods. 

On March 20 this year, the earth’s axis was not tilted toward or away from the sun. It was in perfect balance. Equal parts light and dark.

Certainly, we know about the dark these days, a continual onslaught of confusing, terrifying dread delivered each and every day. 

But something about spring pulls me back toward the light, renews my faith in first love and new babies, beckons me to look up all the happy adjectives in my Thesaurus.

In fact, something about spring makes me downright belligerent as I refuse to let today’s doom take away my joy.

Today I will feel warmth on my skin.  Wear a t-shirt. Walk barefoot. 

Hear those geese overhead, honking in gleeful mischief. 

Taste a spoonful of lemon ice cream.

Buy a couple new sets of chimes to replace those battered by winter’s winds.

And gaze up at that sky of blue, an audacious hue that Sherwin-Williams chemists will never manage to recreate.

Somehow, somewhere, despite these troubled times, tomorrow still brings the promise of apple trees in full blossom, hammocks, the potent aroma of lilacs, chickadees hopping about, showy tulips in their startling splendor – and the bliss of digging deep into the warm earth to sow our first bean seeds.   

As for now, I’ll likely pause at dusk this evening on the shores of Holmes Lake, surrounded by sunset groupies who have flocked outside again to worship this season of wonder. 

I’ll splash through muddy puddles along the park trail, listen closely for meadowlark song and perhaps the faint whisper of the first spring peepers – then roll down my car windows on the way home.