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Hello. Glad you’re here.
The number of times I’ve drafted and tweaked this newsletter in the last month is a testament to how variable March weather can be where I live in New England. The vernal equinox is supposed to signal the beginning of spring, but where I am I don’t quite buy it. I like to use the vernal equinox as an excuse to adopt, or at least prepare to adopt, the mindset of spring. But does it start to feel like spring around here at the vernal equinox? Frankly—no.
We may be lucky to get the earliest signs of spring in late March, but it doesn’t really start to feel like actual spring here until probably May. I am a little farther south this year than I was the last three winters, however, so maybe I’ll be surprised.
The last few years, I admittedly felt a little jealous when I saw people farther south in the Northeast posting their spring fever pics in April—tulips, flowering trees, blue skies! But there’s also something nice about the slow creep to spring around here—the colt’s foot that stubbornly comes up amid the gravel along dirt roads with their defiant yellow heads and the streams overflowing with water. Water everywhere—the big thaw. Mud season.
Daylight’s savings has passed, a logistical precursor to the actual equinox. I know some people think “we’re not farmer’s anymore, we should do away with daylight’s savings!” But what is so bad about a reminder that the seasons are changing, a reminder to be aware of the world around you?
The signs of spring I have seen and heard—the first snowdrops, the sound of birds gathering in still bare shrubs and trees—have been incredibly welcome. Eagle-eyed, we’ve spotted a few daffodils starting to push up in select places. I’ve begun to see robins dotting about and I’ve heard their flapping chirp. As I walked one evening, I saw geese flying in a line against a pink and purple sky, honking, heading in the direction of our apartment.
Eventually more spring ephemerals will appear—trout lily, trillium, bloodroot—and the robins will become more plentiful, instilling hope. Until the greening finally happens. Everything that was white, grey, and brown for so long will become green at last—and then more and more dots of pink, purple, yellow, and blue appear..!
But we’re not there yet. And we still have a ways to go.
Around here, people call this time of year “false spring.” You get a taste of spring for a few days—warmer temps, sun (and not the winter kind, it just feels different)—but then it gets cold and grey again, there’s even snow or—worse—a wintry mix. Water on top of buckets still freezes into ice overnight. But it’s OK if we’re not at full spring yet. It’s worth the wait. And I’m not in a rush—for a few reasons, personal and otherwise. The thawing comes before the greening—perhaps for us as much as for our environment.
Also, The Old Farmer’s Almanac says: “When March has April weather, April will have March weather.” Looking over this month, March has been milder than I expected—maybe in part because we’re that much further south than the cabin we lived in for the previous three years—and we’ve also had some extremely cold days. I don’t think I’ll be stoked for a cold, snowy April, especially if I’m tantalized by visions of tulips and dogwoods just a little further south. And yet, we will enjoy it, whatever the weather, like the birds do.
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Québec City
Photos by Will Solomon
Speaking of still holding on to winter—at the very end of February we took a winter trip to Québec City in Canada. Somewhere we’ve wanted to go for years.
The only walled city north of Mexico. It’s an incredible city to visit in the winter (as long as you’re dressed appropriately) and we got both blue skies and a snow storm while we were there, so we felt fortunate.
We walked everywhere, we rode the funicular, we listened to the bells, we (sort of) practiced our French, we saw huge chunks of ice moving in the St. Lawrence river with boats pushing through them.
I already look forward to going back—and I’m sure it will be a totally new experience in a different season.
I hope you’ve had a chance to read my last newsletter, “bitterness and light,” where I wrote about a concept that seems essential in the political and social situation we’re in right now: Love is not a luxury.
The bleakness of what’s happening in our government and our climate—both at home in the U.S. and abroad—is surely and justifiably frightening and disheartening. But, then, aiming to feel less alone and powerless—committing to resistance (to the status quo) and connection (to each other)—are that much more important.
More soon. Thanks for reading!
♡ ETP
