(photo credit: Daffodils and sky by Tambako The Jaguar on flickr.com. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/legalcode.)
I spend most of the Winter dreaming about Spring.
No more skeleton trees. The sun higher in the sky. The demise of snow and ice. Heat radiating from the sky.
An explosion of color.
If you know me well, you’d think that my favorite part of Spring would be the warming temperatures or maybe the sun out for more of the day. I’m not shy about my dislike of the bitter cold and my tendency toward depression when the sun goes down.
But what I love MOST about Spring is neither the warmth nor the more frequent presence of the sun. (Seems I’m a bit more complicated than you thought.)
My favorite part of Spring is the EXPLOSION OF COLOR. As soon as the trees begin to leaf, my heart leaps. Cherry blossoms! Lilacs! Tulips! Daffodils! I can’t contain my joy.
Remember when they used to show “The Wizard of Oz” on TV once a year and it was a huge event? Everyone gathered round to watch.
For me, the show didn’t really begin until Dorothy stepped out of the house into Munchkinland.
I feel that same anticipation and excitement every time I step outside my house after I’ve planted my Spring flowers. No snazzily dressed small people singing, but I get pink. And purple. And yellow.
Except for one
small big thing.
My damn allergies. After a day in the garden, my head hurts. My eyes tear. My nose runs.
There’s Zyrtec. There’s my somewhat newfound devotion to the Neti pot. There’s Advil.
Nothing does the trick . . . completely. For the bulk of the Spring, I walk around in a sinus-y daze and most of the time look like I’m going to cry.
Let me assure you that despite the annoyance of the allergies, those tears are tears of happiness.
How can you be sad when nature is singing at the top of her lungs?
It’s simply impossible. At least for me.
Now excuse me while I go get a tissue. I’ll skip there to prove my point.
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