In addition to experiencing everything each season offers, those of us who live in a changing climate develop an important attribute – patience.
That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I moseyed out Monday afternoon to look for crocuses and nearly froze my poor, naked ankles off.
Spring is so close we can almost taste it in the air. It smells really near too, like budding lilacs and charcoal grills.
Argh, but it’s not here yet. Not quite. As tempting as it is to put away those Mukluks and pull out your cute spring flats, it’s too soon.
It’s the same with this infernal virus. We’re so close to relative freedom we can almost taste it. The good numbers, like the percentage of vaccinated people, are going up and the bad ones, new cases and deaths related to the virus, are going down.
We’re almost there and I’m hoping we’ll soon be able to enjoy the kind of life we’re used to, without the fear of spreading some unpredictable virus.
I can almost taste things like long, lazy dinner parties and the kind of carefree travel where my only concern is whether I remembered to pack my contact lenses and cellphone charger and not whether the mouth breather in the next seat has just hacked a virus all over me. I’m ready for live music, cabin weekends with friends and family, group workout classes, roadtrips with unplanned stops at quirky places, standing ovations after incredible theatre performances, sporting events — all of them from professional stadiums to the field across the street. I can’t wait to hear the music of a public swimming pool drift across the park — the multi-generational laughter, boomeranging diving boards, the splashing, the joy.
I saw some daffodils yesterday poking out through the recent snow and those hearty harbingers gave me such a lift.
I really feel like the winter of our discontent will be made glorious summer and I can’t wait to hang my bruised (and vaccinated arm) up for monument.