Public service announcement: my daffodils are popping out of the ground.
Everything is going to be okay now.
I’m not even joking. I once had a friend teasing me about how I would dance around the daffodil sprouts the first day I noticed them, right in the dead middle of February. Because why? It’s the first sign of spring. Life. Rebirth. Hope.
When you’re seasonally affected, spring equals hope.
As long as I can remember, the months from October through February were just… hard. Long. Dark. Mundane. I’d crave sunshine and evenings with light, long for warmth that would seep to my bones. The cold wore me out, the many layers of clothing drove me crazy, and I so wanted to wear shoes that didn’t take me forever to put on.
And then those daffodils, my favorite of all flowers, would push through the frozen soil and show me that the world was coming back to life. Then days with more sunshine would follow, and maybe I could feel the rays through my car window when I was driving, almost warming me up. Then the first day that it warmed above 55 degrees, I was in a skirt and flip-flops, skipping around like a little girl.
So yes, in case you were wondering, spring is my favorite season.
Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the other seasons and their place in the scheme of life. I can even (mostly) joyfully relate the “death and rebirth” cycle of winter to the beautiful way that God renews us. And the mystery, the lovely imagery, of the way a world of creation can fall to death and become green again is truly beautiful to me.
But really, I’d love a fast-forward button through all the wintry stuff to get right to the “rebirth” part.
So here I am, end of February, and every day I’m hovering in my back window looking out into my back yard, absolutely giddy over the sprouts of green I see.
First, my daffodils will bloom.
Then, my tulips in reds, pinks, and purples.
And then, soon after, I will be digging the dirt and planting tiny little seeds that will grow into food and flowers, and I will be that lady, barefoot and pregnant, watering my garden. And I’m going to love every minute of it.
Is there anyone else out there like me? Anyone else whose heart seems to start beating just a little quicker when spring comes around and we can see life coming back to the earth?
If you live somewhere that it stays nice year-round, you don’t count. Just kidding. Kind of.
But it’s okay. I’m okay with being like this, because as hard as the long, dark days of winter can be, the warm and sunny days of spring and summer seem all the brighter because of them. And isn’t that life? We appreciate the bright and warmth so much more when we’ve seen and experienced the dark and dreary.
For me, spring symbolizes hope. It shows that at the end of a long, dark season of life, you can boldly expect rebirth and beauty. That there’s work in that beauty sometimes, as we get our hands dirty and plant things. And that for some of the most beautiful things, like daffodil bulbs, you do the hard work of planting them, and then you have to wait through a wet and dreary season before you see the beauty. That just when things seem to be at their deadest, you’ll begin to see the buds of green, the little sprigs of hope.
So if you’re looking for me at all in the next few weeks, you’ll likely find me doting over my daffodil bulbs. Join me in the garden for a little dose of hope.
