April is when the first green shoots appear in this part of the world. As the earth beneath my feet begins to thaw, bulbs lying dormant until they begin to make preparations to delight the world.
The early shoots are not quite noticeable unless one has an eye for it, a searching eye, a spirit that’s constantly stumbling upon small elements that whisper hope.
The advent of spring may not be as evident as the coming of fall. Or, is it just my thinking? The first signs of spring are muted compared to the colour changes sweeping across the entire terrain. There is a park full of sugar maple trees in my neighborhood. Even before fall makes its entry, watching the canopy from a distance, I sense that fall is not far away.
Spring is when I tell myself again and again that just being with a bunch of lilies can be joyous. In Spring, I am reminded again and again of the wonder of creation and feel gratitude wash over me.
The hyacinths, the tulips and the daffodils are quite the eager beavers. A few weeks ago, I noticed tiny green heads butting out of the still stiff earth. In no time, their tips were polished off by the bunnies, waiting for the first shoots, just like me.
Spring is the culmination of a long wait. It’s synonymous with the hope that a little seed, a bulb or the seemingly dead and brittle bark of a bare tree holds, it’s the promise of the returning birds.
Spring is hope.
Whims and fancies 