Mud season arrived early in the North Country this year. March brought heavy rains, high wind, and the early removal of bird feeders as hungry bears emerged from hibernation. April is a cruel month for hikers, with spring meltwater and muddy trails in the valleys and an icy monorail or deep snow higher up. This weekend finds me further south, shaking off the grey in my own neighborhood in the city.
I love Spring bulbs— it feels like magic every year when they appear from the cold ground in the grey season. While daffodils undeniably make for jocund company, I find myself more beguiled by the blossoms that cover the trees before a hint of leaf.
I’m glad I stopped to look on a sunny day before the rain comes tomorrow and bruises the petals.
My other consolation for spending the weekend in the city was my first flying trapeze class in over a year. As I drove out through the city I saw life around me— masked families on the sidewalks, people eating in cafes. Heading out to the rig in the sunshine, seeing my tribe in the flesh I felt something funny in the back of my throat, and I don’t think it was pollen. Is this tight mixture of joy and anxiety… possibly… hope?