Spring is such an inspiring time of year—a season of renewal, of waking after a long winter’s sleep.
I never much cared for spring, especially with the “Southern snow” of pollen so prevalent this time of year. And my grandmother, who lost many of her loved ones in the spring, always referred to it as a sad season. I can understand that, too.
But the older I get, the more I appreciate its quiet beauty—the warming trend, the waking of everything around me. I feel it within myself as well. More creative. More inspired. It’s as though the great winter of my imagination is finally beginning to thaw.
I want to paint, to write, to appreciate beautiful things and to find beauty in everything else.
The azaleas are blooming this time of year…not all of mine are. They’re old shrubs. My Granny always said things “bloom out” over time, and maybe that’s true. But we still have a few that do. One lovely white azalea blooms in view of my chair; it was one of the first things I noticed when I returned home from Georgia. I left, and the grass was brown, the wind sharp with chill. When I returned, spring had arrived too.
I think the seasons have a way of mirroring our spirits.
Mine is ready for growth. For dusting off.
And I can hardly wait to see what’s next.