First Daffodils
Once, last winter, Tucker and I argued about how often he complained about the weather. In the heat of it, I was cold and not understanding. Factually, I had bested him— there’s no reason to complain about something unchangeable. All you can change is your perspective. Blah, blah blah, and sure, I guess I was right, but I was also a dick. Now, with some distance and, to use my own words against me, some perspective— I realize that we were both in the throws of some serious winter depression and he was just complaining as a way to express how he was feeling which was anger and sadness. I was also feeling sadness and anger, and that manifested itself as frustration with the person closest to me not handling their shit, as I so ungracefully was also not handling mine. Thankfully we both got over it quickly, forgave each other, and moved on. I think about this argument often because I feel like all I ever write about is the weather, now. It shows up in everything I do.
When I lived in Austin, I lusted after seasons. When it was 90 degrees in December, I dreamt of a day when I could watch the leaves change, and observe the seasons as they flowed through time.
Now I am living in that dream. And sure, there’s something to respect about the barren cold, about the waiting, about the desolation, and the dying and the decay. But mostly, January is just cold, the holidays are over, and you’re left trying to steel yourself for the first whispers of spring.
Today I am sitting on my couch, listening to birds sing. The seedlings of the flowers and vegetables I planted over the weekend have started to sprout. So far the Marigolds, Sunflowers, and Mustard Greens are winning the race. I’m drinking my coffee from under a blanket because it’s still a little chilly, but the window is open. The trees have buds on them, and yesterday I picked the first two daffodils of the season. I am contemplating building another garden bed this year, and I am impulse purchasing Napa Cabbage seeds because my friends want to try and make big batches of kimchi together.
Spring is coming, and while last year I was miserable from December through February, this year January was the only month I struggled. That feels like something.
I do feel somewhat pleased with the fact that when I lived without the four seasons, I missed them dearly. Seasons are spectacular. Observing the lifecycle of a year is a gift, even if that includes bearing with it through the year’s death. Maybe I had an easier go of digesting winter this go around because I was deep in my own grief— starting the cold months by losing Tuck’s grandfather and ending them by marking the first anniversary of the death of my friend Jane a few days ago.
Moving forward, I’d like to remember that spring starts showing itself around Valentine’s day, regardless of whether the Groundhog sees its shadow, and the first tastes of spring are miraculous, and all of a sudden they are everywhere.
Lately, I’ve been obsessing over a clam pie I had at Folk, learning to crochet or knit (but have not gotten either down YET), browsing (01)endless (02)granny (03)square (04)blankets on Poshmark, and contemplating buying this lotion bar from Kate McCleod (I have minis of the body stone and the sleep stone and I love them). I’ve also been ordering seeds from Botanical Interests and fawning over this dress from Show Me Your Mumu.
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