Spring never fails to impress me. I marvel at it yearly. To watch as once barren branches that looked incapable of life when coated with winter’s snow or sparkling sheets of ice suddenly explode with puffs and petals—blossoming overnight—is an inspiration. I admire life’s triumph with each eruption of color. It is an annual miracle.
When I feel barren as a writer (or as a human being), when my existence feels empty or lacking in meaning, spring reminds me that life will not be denied—that no drought or freeze lasts forever.
If spring is nothing else, it is hope’s metaphor. Where there was hardness, there will be a softening. Where there was a hibernation of life, there will be a blossoming. Grass will pierce the once frozen soil. Trees that looked dead will suddenly bear blooms. Spring proves that even in the presence of death—or behind its façade—life will go on.
Spring isn’t simple. I like that about her. She is a complex season with multiple personalities—infinite iterations. She is an awakening of disparate possibilities. Sometimes she is as soft as summer. Other days she can be as cruel and cutting as winter. Will it be sunny? Will it rain? Could it possibly snow? She keeps us on our toes. And when she is kind, we’re grateful. We rush towards any promise of sun-kissed warmth like it’s water in a dessert. On spring’s benevolent days, we embrace her.
Spring is like life—sometimes difficult to bear and other times brimming with warmth and joy. It is seasons within a season—a time of many types. Anything is possible. Nature abounds with life.
If nothing else, spring reminds me that winter, no matter how long and stubbornly she holds on, can’t have the last word. There is no eternal season. Winter to spring and summer to autumn—it all keeps going. Spring, like life, is cycle and undulation. It is slumber awakened.