On a day like today it seems impossible to write about anything other than Spring. When writing about Spring it seems impossible to write anything unique. It’s easy to place blame on artists and poets like Wordsworth and his host of golden daffodils – but maybe Spring itself is a cliché! The days are happy and bright, life is once again burgeoning forth, the birds are singing, the lambs bleating, and it’s difficult not to get caught up in it – however cynical a person might be.
The very nature of the season brings a childlike naivety back into life after the apathy of late winter. When walking to work this morning, a high number of people caught my eye and said good morning. One man even asked how I was as he perched on a low wall – his face reflecting the sunshine. It’s unlikely that would have happened a few weeks ago. Despite our sheltered lives differing from ancestors’ – the seasons still play a part in them, even if it is just an extra good feeling from time-to-time as the sun shines through a window before an alarm goes off, or a crocus opens at the roadside.
Trying not to sound too smug – I count myself lucky. Having spent ten years in indoor jobs each day I get to spend working in the garden is a good day. Even when the winter cold bites or the summer sun makes me want to pack up and go to the seaside I remind myself of where I was and where I am now.
I explained the enchantment of the garden last week, and here’s the proof. The Broad beans we planted have started to push their way through the compost. It may not seem much to look at but it can make a person feel like a conjurer!
But as I finish writing the lonely clouds have made a lot of new friends. This morning’s spring teaser appears to be over for now. So I will end on another cliché…
This too will pass.