The Rites of Spring

Every year, the snow piles up, the winds blow, and the spirit begins to feel squashed into a tight little space by the grey skies and the never-ending white of the snow. Then, it happens. The thermometer begins to flirt and tease us in jumps of its thin red line. Haltingly, the snows melt, freeze, melt, freeze. I dig out my rain boots and wear them when there is too much squelching clay. Daddy thinks of his garden, Momma thinks of her canning, and I think of my flowers.

As I walk down the dry road in my black and yellow rain boots, I can't help but laugh. What a sight I must make! Besides the irony of wearing rain boots when it's dry, I am also carrying an open umbrella. Looking around, I see that I am under a patch of bright blue sky and I can feel the intense heat of the sun. Feeling quite smart, I carry on and, before long, feel the pattering of raindrops as the sun goes behind one of many very large, very dark clouds. I am reminded alternately of Mary Poppins and Igor Stravinsky's The Rites of Spring.

The Rites of Spring... Yes, that is the perfect metaphor for how spring arrives in the north. It begins in bursts that lead to a psychological agony with all the stops and the starts pulled out. It rains, is snows, it pours, it shines, and, ultimately, the wet clay-mud sticks to everything it touches.

I look up. There is a flock of geese flying in V-formation. With a smile I watch the changing of the guard, well, of the lead goose. Their sorrowful and awkward calls fly before them from high above my mere form, which is only glorious in its insignificance. My days shall be filled with sound once more, for with the coming of spring comes the Canada goose. They will come and squabble for the best nesting sites; as I jog, I will probably have the occasional hilarious run-in with mating pairs and their young. But for now, it is still wintery and blustery; after all, it's only mid-April. In fact, it's supposed to snow.

Then, as though Winter were in a rush, the snow melts and the squishing ground underfoot begins to dry. As the clay becomes solid once more, I will find myself looking around at the bare brown world. With an air of expectation, the forest will seem to say, "I'm still sleeping, but--" In consternation, I will find myself wanting to know, "but, what?" Then the answer comes, a small surprise, and I will answer myself, "but -- not for long." For beneath me, far below the limbs and branches that I trail my fingers against as I walk, there it will be: green.

Even though I am enjoying the awkward youth of spring, I have to admit that I shall miss winter. There's something so delightful in the way winter freezes sound into little bites that, though mournful, are just enough to make me think, to wonder at the world and everything in it. On warm days, were it not for the snow, I would never be able to see the snow lice turn my white world into gun metal blue, nor would I ever see their little, black hopping bodies jumping in their little lousey way. The snow louse is almost invisible because of its extraordinarily small size. They are everywhere now, but that is because it is so warm, and the snow looks sooty to the untrained eye. While looking at the lice, I often find spiders that have blown off their perches in the trees lumbering by; or, if it is still quite cold by spider temperature, wiggling their legs in slow agony.

The first green of spring, really isn't green at all. I've tried to put it into words so many times, but the closest I have ever come to describing that first green is that it is more silver than green. The first seen, is never old enough yet to understand the bitter chlorophyll that shades all the forest in fertile green, is always of a pastel Easter green, a dye that is too dilute, and shrouded in winter's last reminder, enclosed in a faint frost of silver, the first tender living leaf will begin to unfold, to stretch upward to the deep blue of the May sky.

The wonder of life in the Boreal Forest. The rites of spring.

Love,

Jenny