Holding On To Spring

Why is it that just as the plants get busy, peeking up from the ground and blossoming and spreading their leaves, that I get busier too?

I adore all the seasons and the changes they bring (though perhaps long, icy winters least of all), and spring is certainly at the top of the list.

There's something about those first days when it's finally comfortable to step outside in flip flops and a t-shirt again, when the dreariness of winter gives way to the cheerful hues of new plant life, when the sky somehow seems clearer and bluer than it has in months, that I'm drawn to.

So it devastates me when it's also the season when deadlines come fast and furious, when there's a mad rush to present research and finish papers and a million other things on campus, when new opportunities that are much more time-consuming than I ever imagined get added to my already too-full plate.

And my only moments to enjoy the songs of spring come quickly, furtively, as I walk across campus or pull out of the driveway or stand on the back step for a couple of extra seconds when I let Butter inside.

In these brief moments of respite from the madness, I snatch a glance at the tulips that have bloomed without my permission, at the daffodils that have already long since opened, at the joyful spring attire of the flowering trees that is already giving way to new green leaves.

I file these details away in my memory, hold fast to them as the early spring blooms begin to drop to the ground and the pollen coats my car, trying to live in the moment rather than looking ahead.

And I think, with hope, that perhaps next year things will be slower. Perhaps next year I will be able to stand barefoot among the perennials that have bloomed in the front yard, that daily I may be able to breathe deeply beneath the lilac bushes that I pass, that I will be able to soak up every moment of spring and its glory.

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