I woke up yesterday and read Facebook & Twitter feeds about miraculous sunshine and warmth around the country for the first day of spring, then looked outside at our grey skies. I pulled on my rainboots, walked out to the chicken coop while skirting the muddiest parts of the yard, and stood in the steady rainfall while I watched them run out into the flowerbeds to forage. I wished for sun.
"Where is my miraculous sunshine?" I wondered as I walked around looking at the new growth of flowers and garlic and berry bushes that are peeking out as they wake from winter slumber. And then I remembered that here is not a place for sunshine in the early spring. This is a time of dampness and mud, of rainboots, of the pink pops of flowering trees against grey skies. It's a time of growth, fed by all that rain, that will result in abundance when the sun comes (which is not soon enough).
So I gathered some firewood and made a fire. Chai and french toast were our breakfast. We gathered by the fire and snuggled under quilts and read stories; we watched some Busytown and we crocheted on the afghan that does not want to be finished. One of us slept way in because she was up until the wee hours finishing her book the night before. We made cookies. We cozied up and welcomed spring. Here, spring comes on the rainclouds and seeps in slowly through longer days and green buds and blossoms. We have to be patient for a little while longer to bask in the sun.
(like until Friday, when sunshine is forecast for a couple of days. I think I can make it that long)