Spring has been sluggish this year, fighting to get out from under the shroud of winter. Here in New York, winter was very much present on the official first day of spring – a nor’easter that swept in to dump just over a foot of snow before swanning out dramatically. Even knowing climate change is real was no consolation: as I crunched through the snow, face wrapped in a scarf and head down against the wind, it felt spiteful.
But now, mere days later, the sunshine feels a little less weedy. The other day I left my hat at home and went so far as to expose my ears when I wore my hair up. Lent is over; return to your damaging vices, if you must, but for me spring means possibility and renewal. If you, too, have had a rather rough first quarter, you will, like me, be greeting the onward march of the seasons with open arms. Light has begun to triumph over the dark, and leaving the office with the sun still up sets a fire in my belly. Suddenly, I want to make travel plans. Faraway states – is it time to visit Colorado, or perhaps New Mexico? – suddenly feel as if they’re closer, and all I want to do is pack a bag and go. The reality is expensive, but thankfully dreams are still free.
At home, I have hung up art to welcome the new season, and bought new bedsheets. I thought of Persephone as I repotted a plant (we honour the old gods as well as the new, after all), and studiously read up on my Christmas cactus – now, apparently, is the time for fertiliser. I whacked some rugs. As the dust settled, I stuck my head out of the window. The cold air burned my lungs. I didn’t mind.
