I never noticed Spring until I moved to New York City and since then, it’s all I’ve noticed. Spring in New York City holds eternal hope. If you do a Google Image search on the “season of Spring” you’ll find mostly pictures of brightly-colored flowers and blossoming trees. But it’s more than that.
Spring is puddle-y. It’s messy and a little sloppy and sometimes it’s dodging melting snow under the scaffolding. It’s the first day you dare to wear a dress without leggings or tights, conditioned by winter to now have a much higher tolerance for cold legs. 58 degrees in March feels very different than 58 degrees in August.
Spring is communal. It’s watching the neighborhood children play Hopscotch in the park while their parents enjoy a picnic on the hillside. It’s tentative runners and bikers, confused at the prospect of working out in shorts and t-shirts again after months of bundling up for the trails or slogging away on noisy treadmills.
Spring is alive. It’s waking up with the birds and wondering how you lived without them all winter long. It’s watching squirrels race up and down the tallest tree in the park and wondering how they fared over the past few months.
Spring is promise. It’s nature’s reminder that evening daylight does exist and that sandals can be sensible footwear.
I’ve come to realize that Spring holds within it an eternal hope for better days ahead. It is our yearly reminder that darkness never lasts forever, that light and laughter and play will return, and that, if we have open hearts to see it, love can be found everywhere.