Full spring will soon be here. The air will lose its sting and edge, soften into a gauzy flair that hangs, like Spanish moss, from branches, phone lines, the eaves of garages. Spring brings water to the dry sponges of our bodies, filling out what has been made arid during winter. This restorative tonic of spring is what poets celebrate when they write their paeans to the season, what Longfellow called the "wonder and expectation in all hearts."
But much of what we think as actual "spring" is really the end of spring, its final report, the crescendos of the fourth movement, not the delicate allegro of the first. By the time we notice spring's beauty and fizz it's over, and something we had hankered for since the thick storms of January has once again passed us by. Despite our good resolutions to pay attention, we stay so busy with the other matters of getting our living that spring sort of sifts in like a fine dust that accumulates quietly until with great surprise we suddenly find it thick enough to write our names in and wonder where it all came from.
George Santayana had, I think, a better notion. "To be interested in the changing seasons" he said, "is...a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with Spring." Prior to what we think is spring are a few "sub-seasons" of spring, and to be interested in these is to learn how to appreciate the yeasty conclusion we rise to in April. e.e. cummings named one "just- spring," when the world was mudluscious and puddlewonderful. I like the small season right before "just-spring," when the world is melting and the air can still carry an electric charge of sharp chill. I find this usually on my first bike ride. The scabrous snow, darkened and more salt than water, is running away through the culverts and down the cloughs. The vowels of loosened water mix with the hiss of the tires on the road, the slur of the chain over the sprockets. In the sunlight I can feel the advent of August, but in patches of shade lingers a cool vagrant who steals my sweat and makes my skin perk and dance. I like best this prickly interregnum between the harsh edge of March's ending and the opening sultry drawl of April's yawn.
There are other small seasons in spring if you think about them. It's important to notice them and not let them be swamped by the official induction ceremonies granted to March 21 and Hallmark cards. Too often we want to move quickly from what we don't like to something we think we want, and we wash over all the odd quirky bits of time and space that could give not only momentary pleasure but also a more lenient and durable fullness to our lives. There is a season, as the Preacher says, and it would be good to add as many seasons to his list as we can.
English Revisited
Just Say Yes