In the heart of winter, I head outside to embark on a walk – to clear my head, to rejuvenate my body from a recent cold, to revitalize in the form of fresh perspectives. I stroll along the piles of snow and slush, clutching a scarf around my neck and burying my hands in my coat’s pockets.
And as I move, I see sun. I maneuver under blue skies; skies where birds chirp, vibrantly and incessantly. It’s these sounds – the sounds of the birds – that induce inklings of spring; the beginning of something brand new. Nature isn’t the only thing that grows.
Then, a memory of being sixteen comes to mind. It was early April; a night where the essence of spring began to blossom. Its spirit began to dance around the leafy trees and the green grass. My friend and I were spending time at a nearby park, and though I can no longer remember the details of our conversation, of our words that circled through the air, I recall the feelings. The feeling of giddiness that the sun was setting later, allowing us to revel in the light at the end of the day. I was able to shed my heavy layers for a blue denim jacket and black flip flops with rhinestones. Particles of dirt lined the edges of this worn-out pair, but I didn’t really care. I was outside, before the sun went down, on a night where I felt like spring.
I’ve always loved the beginnings of seasons. It’s the beginnings, of anything really, that give us hope.