On Spring: an essay

Spring is the season of labour. These are the months we give birth to ourselves again. It isn't beautiful. For some it may be a miracle. For most it is drawn out breaths through teeth, the need to push yourself into something new, something fresh. We are told this is the season of life, of reawakening, and so we do it because we have lived too long comparing ourselves to flowers. We do it out of obligation; we do it because knowing ourselves in time-worn skin is harder with every year which passes.

But, at least, the shrubs blossom. The trees reintroduce themselves to forgotten children, crushed and dust by autumn's coupling with winter. The birds are singing with throats newly lined with slick, soft butter. And everything feels all right and new. Rain and its tarmac fresh smell. Wind and its sweet grass taste. Sunshine and it is arms. Bees and their hives.

Bees and their hives because spring is the season of labour. Months of love, sweat, and tears. We dig our fingers into the soil, give our birth dates and home addresses to what may come if the clouds give us enough, if the soil is not drowned too quick, too without sun. At first we wait with womb innocence and naivety. We wait for signs and symbols, for the butterflies to move in such a way that we will know our futures better than the soles of our feet. But the changes are slight. So slight only the pillow you rest your head upon notices.

We are pushing though. Birthing ourselves into a new year that has felt stunted and cold until now. Until the months of twirling heat and chill move in. Until time rumbles forward and we begin to feel it; the loosening, the running away of everything we had planned. Every great and wonderful thing we were going to achieve this year, dangling as shoe string from telephone wire, crows inching their way toward it.

Still, both flowers and weeds bloom. Dandelions show us their teeth. Their quiet, wishful-thinking roar. They invite themselves into our palms, between fingers and thumbs. They tell us to dream, to hope, to wish. Wish, wish, wish, until you are the sound of the breeze. You are spring incarnate drifting, lilting upon and into the sky. You are a labour of love. It is not beautiful. It is necessary. Shed your time-worn skin. Embrace it anew. Spring is the season of birth, it is okay, it is time for you to bleed.