March

I think I’m excited for spring but I’m not sure. There are days that I feel hollow, as if winter has scraped out my insides. There are parts that I’ll miss: warm blankets, comfy socks, and soft sweaters that I burrow in like a cocoon. But winter has gone on too long.

It feels fitting that the shutdown happened in March, a season of mud and snow, a season that doesn’t feel like a season at all. I remember when we all went home and saw different parts of each other, the days all endless and the same. My children rode their bikes outside and I grudgingly wore my winter coat. The planes that fly over our house were quiet for a while and everything was still. It feels like I went home and never left.

I think of my life now, so different than three years ago. I know the truth is that progress isn’t always forward. It dips and plateaus, goes up and then back down. It’s the feeling of losing oneself again, of wondering where the right path is. It’s the feeling of loneliness, the feeling of doubt. 

There are seeds that I need to start, tulip bulbs that I need to force but I feel stuck, immobile. March feels like a kind of purgatory.

But if I look, I see the subtle changes. The days are getting longer, the snow quickly melting. The daffodils and crocuses poke out of the earth when the days are warm. I know that March actually is a season and like all seasons, won’t last forever.

I think the sun will help. I think the flowers will help. But for now I have to push through all the gray.