When you visit the study, the windows are blown wide open and it’s a little too chilly. The breeze is fresh, though. It’s a cloudy evening. It might get stormy later. Before it gets blustery, pull up a chair?
Did you bring a friend? Let’s pull up a chair for them, too. Or carry this into the garden and read together until it’s too dark to read outside.
I know it’s too cold to stay outside long, but I know we all want to. March is shimmering. We’re ready to leave our winter blankets behind, even if they haven’t left us yet. The spring almanac will tell us when to plant our dreams and sow our wishes…
Witch hazel appears, same with red bud. I see scilla, daffodils, crocus, snowdrops. Forsythia.
The bravest of the magnolia and dogwood flowers emerge, especially if they’re on a sunny hill. The rest will arrive later.
Dune 2 in theaters. I’m looking for worlds to step into. This is a good one.
I slept with the window open but it was freezing by morning. Too eager.
Forecasting that this season will be a good one for stepping out of comfort zones — experimenting with blue eyeliner, rose perfume. Google search history could be straight from a middle school girl’s browser: how to wear eyeliner. subtle makeup how to. what eyeshadow to wear with eye color. what is my eye color. I haven’t cracked the code yet, but I guess it’s telling that I’m messing with self-expression. I’m trying not to hide as much.
Relishing my long hair because I’ve decided to chop it all off in a few months. Blanket that will be gone by summer.
My teeth rearrange. How is it that my teenage retainer still fits? It still has sparkles in it. This aesthetic choice will follow me into the next decade. Replacing it is so expensive. It stays with me as long as it still fits.
The cat bats her mouse, her bird around the house. Her daily routine is fixed and involves visiting us with affection at sun-up and when we come home. I can predict when she will love me, which is sweet. It has always been important to me to make affection part of routine. If I normalize telling my family and friends that I love them at the end of every phone call, they get to hear me tell them I love you. Saying it often or ritually doesn’t weaken it. Same with my cat. If she flops on the doormat purring exactly once a day, I will gladly make this part of my routine, too.
It’s finally light enough to take a walk after work. The clouds have butter in them, or shell pink. They lie fluffy and low over the hills that cup this city. I walked for an hour last evening under an umbrella. I bought blue wool at a wool shop. It didn’t have a price tag and was therefore three times as expensive as I would’ve been willing to pay. I hope an artist eats well because of me. I consider this my tithe to the arts for this month, or this week, or until I find the next good piece of art to spend money on.
Returned a book to the library. Checked another book out. Placed a hold on another book to arrive. Living on library time reminds me of my childhood. Three weeks to read a book! Return! Delicious anticipation, waiting for the system to reach my name on a wait list! Walk to the library, walk home! Read, read, read! Some measure their lives out in coffee spoons, in seasons. What about library time? What about the time it takes to write, send, and receive a friend’s letter?
I sat on the warm steps of the day and promised I’d spend more time outside this summer. I wrote letters to friends and am waiting for them to write back. This kind of time is sweet.
Measuring time… by the shift in my teeth, by the movies arriving and leaving the theater, by the love from my cat in a day, by my hair growing three more inches. Seasons, library books, letters.
My heart visits my childhood home around this time of year. There, this season changes in a series of little events you don’t want to miss, and you feel special when you witness them. You watch out for the first chipmunk, the first pair of ducks in the marsh. You wait for the sun to be warm enough to coax the bees out of the hives so they can do their cleansing flights. In the evenings you listen for woodcock calls when the trees are silhouettes against a glowing sky. You listen for the first spring peeper in the marsh. In April, you will burn the winter deadwood and last year’s dried Christmas tree — a ritual that feels pagan in its intensity because nothing burns as fast or bright or big as dried pine.
It’s much easier to notice the firsts in spring than the lasts in autumn — because how do you know that you’ve seen the last chipmunk? The last green leaf? The last bee visiting a dying flower before winter hibernation sets in? There’s a time for thinking about lasts, and a time for thinking about firsts. Right now, I’m thinking firsts. I’m coming alive again.
Last night, a migrating flock paused in the trees nearby. I heard robins, grackles, starlings maybe. The sound was overwhelming. It’s early for it, I think. My neighbor and I texted about it. We both had our windows wide open even though it was cold. And the birds moved on, and I finished cooking dinner, and I’m dreaming about the weekend even if I have nothing planned… although I might hear the birds again tonight…
What’s in your almanac? How do you measure your time? What events are you looking out for to mark the shifting season?