Then we drove back to Nebraska where there are still patches of snow on the ground. Not a leaf adorns a tree here in the Cornhusker State, unlike the leaves in Texas, which are already gaining strength and making pretenses of providing shade. Our sunburns look about as native here as the white-painted girls looked at SXSW. And yet...
This morning as I walked my fifth grader to school, I saw (gasp) the tippy tops of flower bulbs pushing up through the damp dirt. It's coming. Spring, that is. There's no denying it once the bulbs start growing. Even though it's barely above freezing outside, I now have hope.
A couple of weeks ago, we took the kids to see Joffrey's Rite of Spring. It was a groundbreaking ballet when it debuted in Paris a hundred years ago. Today, it doesn't seem quite so rebellious, but I thought the timing was perfect. It's about a Russian tribe that sacrifices one of its young women to the gods of spring so the gods will let spring arrive. I totally get it. I'm at the point that I just might do something drastic if spring doesn't come. But instead of sacrificing one of my beautiful daughters, I think I'll perform my own "Write of Spring."
Writing about something evokes some kind of memory magic. You can't help but feel spring's embrace when you write about what it feels like to warm your skin just by stepping outside onto the front porch or to feel the warm cement beneath your pale, tender feet, which have spent months and months tucked inside slippers inside socks. I'm going to write of spring until it's fully, all-the-way, undeniably here.