One of the things I appreciate most about being back East is the true sense of seasons, and the glory (relief?) of spring finally arriving.
While it hasn't been the coldest winter that I remember (at least in my 4th winter back East), it seems like it's been the longest with March coming in and leaving like a lion, with "chance of snow" a lingering grumble in the weather report.
Living in temperate places like California or more tropical like South Florida, warm sunny days can become commonplace and even taken for granted. Back East, the short, dark, colorless days and constant chill in the air make the physical and emotional hibernation of winter a necessary retreat.
Around mid March I kept looking up at the bare trees on my street and wondering if I'd ever see buds. Mentally you think you will, but in the midst of winter, you begin to have your doubts.
Believing, which is unseen knowing, without a shade of proof, becomes a bit harder...
Somehow, after some false starts and late season snowstorms, the clouds clear, the rain stops, the sun warms, the earth turns, people shed their layers, dust off the cobwebs and embrace the new season.
Barren trees on my street, lacking any signs of bud life, suddenly burst forth with glorious bloom.
And while it happens every year, every year it feels somehow miraculous.
Perhaps spring is our reminder to believe there's always room for miracles.
