The time of year has come again where my body starts shaking off winter, (slowly, laboriously), and lumbering toward the door to outside, where it expects a sunny spring day. It’s an expectation that isn’t always met with equaled enthusiasm from the sky, ground, misty air—whatever is preventing it—but yesterday was spring perfection. It’s no wonder that the weather has such control over our moods. When the sun reaches its ethereal rays of light right through your skin, and the breeze wraps around your body like a cool complement to the sun’s warmth, how can you feel anything but exuberant? And then you might find out that the next day 3-5 inches of snow is predicted, and you remember, the weather is fickle. I imagine that instead of One Mother Nature in control, an assuring image of unity, she has instead scattered her many hormonal teenage daughters throughout the world, inviting weather chaos. Sun, then snow, then hail. It’s all in a day’s work in Ohio. Anyway, it’s that complement coolness I want to praise, an often-ignored stepsister to popular warmth. Although that word, warmth, is so often used to describe pleasurable sensation, “heated” usually means the opposite. Yesterday, I was more on the latter end of that spectrum, but the cure was found in the still cool ground that seemed to draw like a magnet all the heat from my tired body.
It was a cool embrace and a welcome one and it worked like a charm. It never ceases to amaze me how primal and completely cathartic it feels to bury your hands in workable soil. The ground is like nature’s version of a stress ball, except, in the end, life springs forth. On this particular day I did very little in the way of productive chores, but one accomplished task involved trimming the blackberry bushes, and I noticed, under the deep merlot purple of the vines peeked a bright, grassy green. The plants are waking up too. After a long winter of browns, hibernation, and seasonal death, the rich, willing soil promises, yet again, to deliver what we all hold dear: life.
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