in appreciation of a spring day

Today was one of those gorgeous days. A leave your coat inside, sit in the warmth of the sun kind of day. A lean your head back, close your eyes and listen to the birds chirping kind of day. It was wonderful. It made me wonder at how 50-something degree weather can seem so cold in September, and yet, so wonderfully warming in March.

I wandered around this afternoon admiring everything. I feel like it is easy to often lose sight of what is good and pure and simple, so I try to occasionally pause and smell the proverbial roses. As I walked, I breathed in deep draughts of air, smelling the familiar smell that comes with spring. I love the smell of dirt, unearthed from months of snows and freezes and rains and snows and plow trucks which unintentionally tilled the earth. I love that early spring assures me that I can in fact smell colors.

Like a pig roots, I too snuff around and am awarded with the heady perfume of spring. There is something amazing about the spring air in the country. It seems that everything is a player in this symphony; from the largest to the smallest, all seeming to add to that earthy quality. From the tiny, seemingly insignificant buds appearing shyly on trees; to the snowdrop flowers, timidly peeking through fall's leaves; the leaves themselves add to the quality of decay, and become fertilized bedding for new growths through their rot. Is it possible that I smell all these things at once? At all? Wandering around, I hoped that I could take in the spring smell of today and catalog it in my mind, tuck it away some place so it would not be forgotten.

Ah, spring. I love Mummy Dearests' reflection on the changing of seasons and just had to share it (full blog here). How is it that she usually knows exactly how I feel!?

"I am made of New England seasons. Ingrained in my smell-memory is the woody sweetness of boiling sap. The spongy dirt smell of the loam as it thaws after winter. The equally distinct and tangy-sweet smell of manure as it too thaws and runs, rusty brown, into the roads. These are the smells of spring - smells that halt me in my tracks and all of a sudden I am three or six or ten, smelling the same exact thing. And there is a melancholy when these memories flood me. There is a sense of the past and an urgency to breathe in as much of it as I can before it too passes and a new season begins."  ~ Mummy Dearest on Life in Avalon

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