My Silent Spring

I know that uttering the word spring on February 18 does nothing but set up false hope, so I'm hoping that by placing the word here on my computer screen I will keep my silent spring firmly in the realm of actual hope. Although there is still quite a bite in the air and the trees stand as stark and barren as they did in January, today was the first day where I could feel the change is coming. Sometimes I think I actually like this part of the year the best. It's still cold and the snow could fly tomorrow, but there is that real promise of spring. It is the anticipation that I love the best. Perhaps it's the same reason I never minded not being in love. When you're not in love, you know you will get to fall all over again. But once all the beautiful summer days come, I find myself missing the anticipation. This time of year feels full of promise and better things to come. It's like being a four-year-old on Christmas eve but for weeks at a time. I love this time of year.

Although the change is subtle, I know I'm not alone in my anticipation. Everything was different today. The neighbors smiled a little bigger and Kira's tail wagged a little wider (to the detriment of the skaters and runners who thought they might be able to share Kira's sidewalk). People took five minutes to talk to each other, a welcome change from the bundled up, split-second exchanges people share during the months where the goal is to get from warm spot to warm spot as quickly as possible. To top it all off, as Kira and I walked through the neighborhood I saw what my scientific eye was waiting for . . . irrefutable proof that spring is coming. Under the curled up, brown leaves of last year's pansies, I saw small green shoots and leaves springing up, ready to relieve the tired winter foliage of its ugly place-holding duties. I'm not ready to yell it out quite yet, but spring is definitely rooted in the realm of hopeful possibilities. You can't argue with the pansies.