It’s March, which means that we get to change seasons this very month. I’m not quite ready to let go of winter, with its storms and rain, but the signs of spring are upon us, daffodils and tight buds on trees, and I can’t help but feel excited for that, too.
Of course people have mixed feelings about the change in any season, but one thing I enjoy knowing is that there’s usually a shared, overarching sense of refreshment when spring comes along. I feel a renewed sense of possibility, almost as if my imagination becomes wider.
In Paris a few weeks ago, the weather was so not so much February as it was April, sunny and optimistic. People were out in droves, enjoying the days and the hints of spring that seemed present at every turn. A French friend tells me that because the apartments are small, everyone craves the space of the outdoors, and rush outside when the nice days come along. Seems reasonable to me.
This played out in the parks each day. The sun beamed down on people, dogs, runners, piétons. On the weekends, or after work hours, groups of friends laid down blankets or sat directly on the grass, sharing wine and snacks and stories. I imagined that each person felt as I did: happy to be there, in the fresh air, with evidence of spring surrounding us. It was intoxicating.
Now, home in California, I find myself thinking of things to come. As we creep ever closer to spring, as the days become longer and the promise of summer lingers on the horizon, I open my windows, I seek out the tiny buds of flowers, and I head outside every chance I get.
It does my heart good to remember that halfway across the world, Parisians are doing the same. What a sweet joy it is, to see that spring is coming.
The Wandering Introvert 