It's cold today, and this morning when we woke up it was snowing outside, just a little. Two hours later, the light dusting on last year's un-raked leaves has disappeared, but a day like this reminds me that spring is a capricious time. We always think of "spring days" as those first wonderful days when it is warm enough to go outside without a jacket, when we can turn our faces up to the sun, when we can smell dirt and dampness and something fresh coming from the south. But days like today, gray and unexpectedly cold, and yesterday, which was warm but blustery, are as much a part of spring as the sunshine and the green shoots of flowers.
Kathleen Norris says in The Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy, and Women's Work that she often becomes paradoxically depressed as spring arrives. Since she lives in South Dakota and routinely endures winters that would earn people living anywhere else federal disaster aid, this might seem extraordinary, but it does not astonish me. I often greet the arrival of spring not with depression, but with a low-grade panic. Days like today, which seem, if not wintry, then at least autumnal, are actually a comfort to me, as are the many signs of spring which have not arrived: there's a robin in the yard, yes, but the tree he's sitting on has not yet budded. The perennials planted by the last owner of this house may be coming up, but thank goodness the grass is still brown.
I envision spring and summer as times of leisure, during which I can loaf in warm places, occupied only with my meandering thoughts. But I am rarely prepared for leisure when spring arrives: I have not, for instance, managed to do all the work which needs to be done over the next six months so that I can enjoy that perfect leisure. And as good as it felt to open the windows to freshness earlier this week, that freshening spring wind blew over unfinished winter-time projects which may now have to be completed in defiance of sunshine and beckoning breezes.
Spring also brings opportunities: to paddle my kayak; to take my son to the zoo, the aquatic park, the swings, the beach, or just to the backyard; to visit friends who live at a distance without having to worry about road conditions; to enjoy leisurely evenings with David watching the birds and bats in the backyard. I am afraid of squandering these opportunities, and if the first warm day comes and goes without anything happening which could only be done in warm weather, I find myself thinking, "That's one gone! And there are only so many left!"
I worry that we will not visit the zoo often enough, not go swimming often enough, not paddle our boats often enough. I worry about this so much that I have been known to quantify "enough": how many trips to Lake Michigan in one year are "enough"? Three between Memorial Day and Labor Day? Two? Four? How often do I need to get into my kayak for it to be "enough"? Twice a month? Every week? Twice a week? It would not be beyond me to make a checklist for the summer on which I could mark off, with satisfaction, each met opportunity for spontaneous summer fun.
Some of my warm weather anxiety comes from having been constantly nagged by my mother to go outside when I was young. I still feel guilty sometimes if I look up and realize I have been inside reading, or on the computer, while the sun has been shining, and I experience a rainy summer day as a relief: nobody could expect me to go outside in this! This despite the fact that I like to be outside; I used to work for three weeks in the summer at the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, and one of the things I loved about it was that it was not possible to go inside during those three weeks, at least not into any structure more solid than a tent. The voice in my head that tells me I must go outside--my mother's voice--also cautions me, implicitly, to avoid making anything I hope my son will enjoy into an obligation, lest he find himself resisting it despite his love for it.
All of this is plainly foolishness, and as spring becomes more established and the warm days begin to feel abundant rather than rare, it will fade. But in the meantime, when long-awaited springtime comes knocking at my door clothed in shining robes and a garland of blooms, I can only respond testily, "For crying out loud, Persephone, you're early again! Like I have time for this!"
Posted by Su Penn at March 29, 2003 11:31 AM | TrackBack