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.

Being Unorganized, Scatterbrained, and Generally Crazy

"You're closet dirty," Conservative Boy told me the other day, when he got into my car and saw the abundance of snacks littering the front seat (for my drives to and from grad school) and the pile of receipts that have accumulated.

"No, I am not closet dirty," I said (although my closet is a mess too, come to think of it). "I'm just busy."

That really gets him going. He hates it when I say I'm busy. Probably because that's all I say lately.

And it's not just that he hates it when I say I'm busy. It's that he hates it that I'm busy. Because I haven't had time to do much cleaning, or picking up of dirty dishes, or anything of that sort lately. And guess who's picking up the slack? (She laughs evilly at this. He's doing a terrific job, and secretly she hopes he'll keep up with all the chores even when she's not busy. Ha. Yeah right.)

Prior to this semester, our house was pretty much always clean. The bed was made almost every morning before I started work. And I cooked almost every night. Now? NOW. Let's just say: none of the above. And the kitchen table I was so good about clearing off regularly so it wasn't covered in junk? It's now littered with books and notebooks and whatever else I need on hand for homework and class planning and grading. Which, come to think of it, is also the state of the floor of my office.

It's not really as bad as it sounds. It's not like the some of the houses you drive by, where the front yards are filled with junk and overgrown and just about the most terrible sights ever. It's just that I am having to ignore the part of my brain I inherited from My Mom that says: This must be clean! This must be tidy! And so Conservative Boy, who is actually pretty darn tidy himself, even though he prefers when someone else is doing the picking up, is taking over.

That's a beautiful thing to happen when you're busy.