The Way Back

A few weeks ago, Steve and I were walking home from a pub, kicking at the last nasty piles of snow and wishing it were spring. It was a warm enough evening that we could start dreaming of cook-outs and camping. There was a gusty wind that made me feel like spring was trying to bust up winter's cold hold on the air. Steve said, "I know we have a long way to go, but still, I feel like we're on the way back." He meant the "way back" the way he means it when he's talking about a run. All our runs have a way out (the first half) and a way back (the second half). The way back is a lot easier because you're finally running towards home instead of away from it. And no matter how tired you are and how bad you want to walk, you just keep running because it's the fastest way home. And in the case of the seasons, warm weather is home. Now that it's March, we're finally on the way back.

Right now, my winter clothes are about as appealing to me as a crusty, discarded locust shell. I can barely bring myself to put them on. Earlier this week, in a rash protest of winter, I decided to boycott my sweaters, my thick socks, even my coat. I dressed in an airy sleeveless top, dug out some cute pumps from behind the boots and clogs in my closet, and threw on a light jacket on my way out the door. And of course it was freezing. And of course the bus was about 20 minutes late. Apparently, winter is like a Wisconsin governor - he doesn't care about protests.

During this time of year, I am starving for signs of spring. Every time I'm outside, I feel like a stalker, tracking spring down. I look for green, for buds, for anything pushing through the cracks in the sidewalk. Last weekend in Maryland, I saw a little crop of purple crocuses in a lump of dirt and almost passed out from joy. And as much as I prefer the city to suburbs, I felt jealous of the friends we visited in Havertown last Friday because they have the raw sound of singing bugs and the smell of wet dirt right outside their house.

The city is a bit stingier with signs of spring. Still, I went running this morning, and my eyes were glued to the trees. The branches have changed. In the depressing dead of winter, they remind me of claws, scraping at the gray sky. Without leaves, all the trees look about same - dark, spindly silhouettes. But today, the branches snapped back into my consciousness because they are covered in buds. There is no green yet, let alone pink or purple or white, but there are buds. And each tree seems to have its own way of doing buds. Some cluster along the branch like rain drops; some look like tiny umbrellas, stuck out on stems; some are tough and knobby; others are smooth and plump like little pregnant bellies. I can't wait for the leaves they will become, the soft parachute of green that will cover the city for the summer.

And after months of hibernating, breathing and re-breathing the stale air in my apartment, hiding from the elements, I was happy to get rained on this morning. I took off my long sleeves so I could feel the cold pricks on my arms, the assurances that spring is coming. It always comes.