The wonderful thing about Spring is how easily I forget it after it’s finished each year.
Despite how that sounds, I don’t mean that sarcastically, or as any type of warning that I actually hate Spring and look forward to it ending every year — just the opposite, in fact. What used to be one of my least favorite seasons (I’m an October baby, I’m naturally predisposed to the fall, what can I say?) has become more and more of a highlight the older I get, and the longer I stay in Portland with its lengthy and emotionally difficult winters. (Man, the unrelenting greyness gets to you after awhile.)
That said, I feel as if Spring is something I remember in the abstract, at best; I know in theory that everything comes into bloom and plants sprout new life, and the sun starts to shine, and all that good stuff. If you asked me to describe the kind of thing that happens in the season, I could do that, no problem. I just forget what it looks like, is all. And then, each Spring, there will come a moment when I’m out on a walk, and I look up and see all the trees covered in their new growth and it takes my breath away.
It reminds me of something I realized when I was back in my hometown for the first time in years, back in 2023; I went for a walk in the early morning before anyone else was up, it felt like, and there was a point where I realized that I’d grown up surrounded by beauty and nature, and hadn’t even noticed at the time. There was such lush greenery all around me, and it had become alien enough that I noticed it again, and appreciated it as if it was new.
I get that every Spring here. There’s a point where I suddenly remember that there’s all this life happening all around me in such colors and varieties, and I feel humbled and touched at the same time. I always forget how genuinely beautiful Spring can be, and I actually love that; every year, I get to see everything new and fresh and fall in love all over again.