Coming alive

I lived for the Spring.

After an eternal Iowa winter, there was truly nothing like the first buds of May – like nature herself was breathing a sigh of relief. I was too.

The back patio of my first childhood home wrapped around the house like a hug. Just opening that sliding door felt like a slice of freedom that Winter hadn’t afforded us. The 100-year-old oak trees towered above our heads and spread out bright green dappled sunlight under our feet.

My sister and I would follow the painted wooden planks of our deck to the lower level, where my Dad had built a sandbox wrapped around one of the oaks. A little circle of safety. I’d bury my toes in the sand and search for the still-cold patches left over from Winter. It felt like I was burying my loneliness. I would sit, listening to my sister’s quiet chatter of play amid the chirps of the robins and black-capped chickadees.

I remember feeling alive. “I am here”, Spring would say, as the daffodils shuddered in the breeze. “You are here,” it would say, as the sun caressed my face with both of its hands.

Spring is a blanket of warmth.

Spring is a return to joy.

Spring is a promise that I long to hear every year.

Even now, I walk out onto my own back patio and I look up at the clear blue cloudless sky, I look out at the melting snow, and I am reminded: I am here.