It’s that feeling of Spring.  But not because of the weather.
Something in me has made me buy cleaning products, re-pot my indoor plants, wear dresses without tights, and relinquish my boots for flats (without socks).  And I know March agrees with me – “springing” ahead an hour and lighting the days well beyond five p.m.
So its without much surprise that I have a longing desire to see my tulips and daffodils.  Bulbs that were planted six months ago.
By the end of this week, full of temperatures buoyed by a chinook, the snow that inhabits my front lawn should be gone.  The ground bare and ripe for a little tulip blossom to pop through.
It’s completely selfish.  Afterall, I’m taunting my little tulips to rise knowing that they’ll die shortly thereafter.  There’s no way they’ll survive the snow and freezing temperatures of the next two months.
The moments of the first blooms are so beautiful.   They are the rewards for enduring a long and cold winter.  The blue sky, sunshine, and briefly seasonal temperatures make it feel that spring will linger and shortly lead us to summer.  My mind and spirit know that spring is happening in other places.
But this temporary bliss is followed by a crushing blow…the knowledge that winter isn’t over.  Spring isn’t here, nor is it going to linger, and summer is really still four months away.  The only plant that survives outside is my mini Alberta spruce, planted by sheer willingness to believe that something I plant outside can survive the year.  Last year, I posted my “spring” planting photos in May & my comment then was, I hope it doesn’t snow.
And so, for now,  Spring exists only where I can artificially make it so -in Cadbury creme eggs, pastels, indoor bouquets, and a obsessive need to open windows while its still above freezing.  My just-say-no-to-winter campaign begins and I shamefully hope my bulbs will bloom.

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