Things are changing. Outside, in the garden, the first spring bulbs are sprouting, forcing their way inexorably out of the ground and into the bright light of late winter – crocuses, snowdrops, daffodils, grape hyacinths. I pull aside last autumn’s mulched leaves and find more of them – more daffodils, tulips. I kneel down beside them and take blurry photos of the tiny green sprouts, photos that make this early growth seem more than it really is.
The end of winter and the beginning of spring feels so very slow. Day after day of grey cloudy skies, of the last limp banks of snow slowly melting into the grass, of the temperatures remaining not quite cold, not quite warm, of all of winter’s dirt and sand piled up on the streets and sidewalks. I can no longer quite remember what leaves are like, or green grass, or days so hot the wet laundry seems to dry almost instantly on the line. Slow. Everything feels slow these days. I think slowly, I write slowly.
I feel frustrated sometimes, because I know that things are changing, but I can’t see it. Not yet. It’s all still below the surface. And because I can’t see it, it’s hard to believe in it’s possibility. I fear that it’s not really happening.
One day, I find the first green shoots of spring coming up, and I think, maybe it is. Maybe it is. Things are changing. Slowly, but they are sprouting.