Wednesday, March 14

First Lights and Favorite Things

"Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best — ” and then he had to stop and think. Because although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.” 

While I was walking into work yesterday, I found myself staring at the trees, looking closely to see if there was any evidence of buds. I couldn't tell for sure. If they're there, they are most certainly not ready to announce their presence yet. They are tightly furled and tiny, just barely peeking out mysteriously from the nubby edges of each branch.

If they're there at all. My eyes could be playing tricks on me.

A lone daffodil has opened up in one of our flower beds, it's bright yellow face nodding appreciatively at the March sun -- that sort of sun that warms up a car but doesn't change the chilly shadows. Not yet, anyway. I smile over that little daffodil, and I'm carefully checking the other ones that haven't bloomed yet each time we walk to our front door.

I don't even mind the rain right now -- because its warm, and because I know it's sheparding in those daffodils.

I feel like I'm willing things to bloom. To open up and share their colors and scents. For spring to officially arrive in pomp and heraldry, as if all the little Yinzers on our street will put up a May Pole and sing merrily (they are much more likely to play street hockey and swear up a blue streak -- these children are scandalizing me).

Today, I'm taking a moment to just appreciate these early signs of spring. To love my lone daffodil. To enjoy the possibly-buds-but-possibly-branches-masquerading-as-buds on the trees. To stop wishing things would hurry up and get on with it.

The very beginning is often the best part of so many things. The first ray of sunshine in the morning. The first cup of coffee. The first time you wear that new dress.

But the moment just before things begin might be even better. The clouds that are pink before the sun has risen. The smell of coffee brewing. The way the dress looks on the hanger just before you slip it on.

Those moments hold infinite possibility.

The in-between seasons, spring and fall, are my favorites for a reason. They are brief, and they hint at things to come. So I'm going to enjoy the hint for now. I'm going to relish in the faint smell of spring, with its fresh new grass, its soft dirt, its warm rain, and its clear, tender sunlight.

Springtime is the land awakening.  The March winds are the morning yawn.  [Lewis Grizzard ]


  1. I so needed these words of wisdom today. I'm on the "First Lights" bandwagon. Thank you.

  2. Carrie, I love this post. Yesterday, I pulled out a sundress from my closet and then put it back thinking "not just yet" - you eloquently put into words all the great feelings I have about these days.