Sunshine on the Porch
In the heart of Colorado, at 8000 feet elevation, we receive more than three hundred days of sunshine a year. But we have no springtime. Springtime in the Rockies is an oxymoron where we live.
We cannot rely on the calendar that falsely claims March 20th the first day of spring. We plan for another six weeks of snow from that date, not February 2nd, because on Groundhog Day in Colorado, groundhogs pack their bags and head for Pennsylvania where winter doesn’t last as long.
It would be nice if we could watch for crocus to bloom, but the groundhogs eat the bulbs before they leave for Pennsylvania. We don’t have colorful azaleas or rhododendrons, because they don’t cope well with frostbite, and March winds would blow the blossoms away, anyhow.
Where I grew up, my birthday was a celebration bringing spring clothes in cheerful pastel floral prints. Now I celebrate it in the middle of winter, and I wish for new wool socks because the ones I started wearing in September are worn out.
Still, I am ever hopeful. In March, I start searching for any sign of green growth, of hope that spring is on its way.
I watch for bluebirds, those harbingers of springtime and joy. But bluebirds are fickle. They have a tendency to fly around for a couple days looking for an affordable place to rent, and then they fly away.
The cost of living is high here.
The cold, the wind, the heating bills. Icy roads, late-season blizzards, worn-out wool socks. By the end of March, my batteries are empty. I need spring. I need to peel off the woolen layers, and emerge from my winter den into the light. But our mountains gain most of their snowpack during March and April.
When we built our house, we took advantage of the Colorado sunshine, and designed our house for passive solar heat gain, orienting it toward the light. The lure of the view was too great, though, and we twisted a few degrees toward the peaks, rather than true south. The result of deviating is that while sunshine floods our home with heat and light most of the winter, during March and April, we receive the least solar gain in our home.
That’s when we start watching the porch.
We added the back porch after our first winter here, to protect the back entry from the wind. In the summertime, I eat breakfast on the back porch, out of the wind, in the sunshine that hits it only during the summertime, when the deviation in orientation allows the rays to hit the north side of our home. In that space, I linger over my berries and scone. I smell the sweet perfume of the lilac blossoms, watch bluebirds fly in and out of their nest, and I know that for a few months, I am free from all the layers that bind me during the winter. I trade my wool socks for sandals, and I feel as free and light as the bluebirds.
This year, I need my back porch more than ever. Not only as a protection from the winds, but a promise of hope.
Last year, spring never came. Summer never really arrived, either. The late-season snows that should have nourished the soil blew right past us. Wildflowers did not bloom. The field did not turn green. We stayed huddled in our home and when we did emerge, even our faces were covered in multiple layers. The one sign I had come to trust the most—the light—was filtered through wildfire smoke, riots, and masks. Hope flittered from spot to spot, never finding a home.
This year, I’m seeking the light within myself, from the beacon of my dreams. I’m gathering it from my husband’s smile, and the giggle of my grandchildren. I’m searching for it in the books I read and the images that flow from my pen. I’m orienting myself toward the Light of the World.
And last week, on one morning between snowstorms, my husband greeted me with the sweetest words:
“Did you see it? There’s sunshine on the back porch.”
Where are you looking for the light? For hope? How are you offering it to each other?
