Hope is in the Air
What is it about spring that’s so very vital to my soul? Yes, I’m solar-powered—I’ve written about it before. But in Colorado, in this valley, the sun shines in the winter too. We brag that we get 300 days of sunshine a year here. It's rare that we don’t have sunshine for at least part of the day, even in February. My need for spring goes beyond the sunlight.
It’s more like a need for air.
The air of springtime has a fresh zing to it—like lemon zest or a hint of cilantro—a flavor different from that of other seasons. For me, summer is about being outside as much as possible—my garden, and trees, trails, and tent all calling to me. Autumn has its cozy, come-to-the-fireside vibe, and when winter arrives, all I can think about is holidays and shared family time.
But the sparkle of sunlight on snow has dimmed over the weeks as the snow melts, leaving the landscape drab and dull. Although I know new shoots are inching their way upward through newly thawing soil and last year’s growth into the light and air, everything looks lifeless.
A small herd of deer, nearly starved and as worn-looking as I feel, congregate near the creek, searching for the first centimeters of green to emerge from the dirt. There is little of any nutritional value left for them to eat, and the spring snowstorms are still likely to dump on us at any time, suffocating the green again in cold and ice.
Right now, it feels like my heartstrings have been stretched as tight as they can be, like a slingshot pulled back as far as it can reach, loaded with a stone so heavy I’m not really sure I can hold it in place any longer.
I’m stretched past the edge of winter, trying to hold on until I can find the green stuff. And breathe again.
Just when it feels like I can’t hold this pose for another second, like there is absolutely no oxygen left, the signs of springtime begin to appear. These simple signs breathe hope and life back into me and the high mountain valley that we live in.
A big fat robin in the blue spruce tree that sits at the corner of our yard.
Bicycles going by on the county road.
Buds on the aspen trees.
A bluebird on the swingset in the backyard.
Green and purple tips of variegated tulips peeking through the soil by the gate
The sound of my husband hammering something in the barn.
Daffodils, already three inches high, having sprung from the ground without my notice
The scent of the earth on the breeze
Yeah. The scent of the earth. Of springtime. I feel sorry for the people whose world is so encased in asphalt and concrete that they’ve never known the fragrance I speak of.
It lurks beside the creek, where, if you know where to look, the green is already there amongst the dead grass. You can hear the voice of spring gurgling through the hole in the ice. Feel it beckoning you away from the fire to the sunshine.
It’s the earth, ripe with expectation of a new season of growth and relief from the grip of cold and ice.
It's overcoming all the detritus of last year and the year before and reaching for the promise of new growth.
It’s the promise that regardless of how much we feel responsible for creating the world we live in, there is a force greater than us, a cycle of life older than we are, unending, giving us breath and hope and the expectation that the time for new life is here again.
A whiff of woodsmoke lingers and scattered snowflakes flutter in the breeze. But mornings ring with birdsong, and hope is in the air. Breathe deep.
Are you looking for signs of spring? Or something else?
What symbols of hope do you see? Want to share them with us?
