Cracks are forming in the course mulch where sprigs of something are trying desperately to come up. The bulbs of spring are curious or maybe too eager to resist. It is a warm winter, after all. And the amount of rain is comparable to what used to be April’s responsibility—now May. The now wet and unthawed earth is bedding for microbes to regenerate, larvae to emerge, and spring flowers to make considerable assumptions about the world. The time is ready for spring. But this is the same way it’s been the past few years: daffodils rising in two or three rounds before the end of spring, cut down at some point by a late March frost. Let’s call it a Daffodil Winter: when the January Thaw—which used to only be a week—becomes a month; the promise of spring is so apparent that the groundhogs come out before February 1st; and the daffodils, excited and too soon, begin to break through the ground.
The world is hungry and excited. I feel that hope and eagerness, too. And I felt the same way the past two or three years—high hopes, only to be barreled over by some unsuspecting series of events. And year after year, I’ve had trouble learning, keeping focus. Daffodil Winters are telling of a time to care for my hopes in a way that’s underneath, in the roots, behind-the-scenes, and inside out. Call it self-care or working on myself; call it whatever. Yet, despite being concerned about an early spring, I’m ignorant nevertheless to the promise of warm weather, longer days, and new beginnings. Like the daffodils, there’s an amnesia to all this that I fall susceptible year after year. And I can’t decide what to side with the futile optimistic attempt of a yellow-cupped flower or its cautionary omens. Must we always come out of the world, year after year, with something to show? Or have these winters taught me that the worth of evidence is insignificant?
As for myself, I found a chair to sit in. I feel at ease. It’s still winter and this, too, feels right.