Right now, it’s snowing.
I have been trying to bring on spring by force of will, and it isn’t working.
Naomi and I have been on walks nearly every day, no matter the weather.
I wore Goldberry on St. Patrick’s Day, and she looked almost violently bright compared to my environs.
I started peas yesterday.
(Good life lesson: Clean out the seed starting flats right after you take seedlings out of them; don’t wait until right before you want to use them again. Yuck.)
I’ve knit on almost nothing but shocking rainbow socks.
I found the fattest robin redbreast I’ve ever seen perching in our backyard, checking out the tentative buds, who are in turn waiting (wisely) for the right moment to bloom.
But right now, it’s snowing. Big, fat flakes out of an upside-down sea of dirty cotton balls.
These last bits of winter are the last dregs of a cup of black coffee. It’s really not fun anymore, but there are things I will miss about it. It’s uncomfortable, it’s gritty, it’s cold, and no amount of positivity will make it easy or nice. But there is good in it if I can stop and accept it.
Besides, it’ll probably melt by dinnertime.