It is the first time in my adult life that even the thought of spring exhausts me.
I have written so many praises of spring, all in a pleading voice, asking it to materialize from the remnants of winter and save me from a colorless and silent world. I have always craved life manifesting around me in shape, color, and sound. Spring has been my salvation for decades.
Before moving to the U.S. and having my own backyard, I had played Marco Polo with spring in every patch of nature I could find between the asphalt and the city buildings. I would spot a bare tree and beg for its blooming, or a snowdrop poking through the dry dirt, and get almost teary over its delicate white bell of a flower and the promise of spring in its blooming.
I would conjure it on sidewalks on my way to work, in parks on my way downtown, and in front of my bedroom window, where I had planted an apple tree, and all I wished for was to see some pink buds on its branches.
Since living here, my anticipation for an early spring consumes me even more intensely due to the lingering Midwest winters and Chicago’s unforgiving winds. But having a backyard has offered me the chance to pull the spring out of the ground—literally.
I plant seeds and see them sprout and grow into unbelievable flowers, herbs, and vegetables, and their growth allows me to witness all the beauty of the world concentrated in their becoming. My garden has been “the place” for Spotting Yoy.
Joy grows together with the plants in my raised beds and along the side of my house, just as much as it grows on either side of the paths that take me across my nearby forest or the park behind the library where I work, where the loop trail carries me across seasons, inviting me to pick my joys every time I pay attention.
Spring’s descent upon my short and frigid days has invigorated me and inspired me to fill many eager pages. The book I have just finished, which I will hopefully publish soon, began on an abundant spring day a year and a half ago, when nature was pulsating with life. My backyard and the whole Midwest were already green and bright, and their beauty became chapters in my story. Spring energized me and gave me the strength to finish what I had started, and the trust that my story would do justice to my adoptive country.
That’s what spring does: it fuels ambition and desire and blows with all its might into the sails of life, pushing it into the wonders of a sea of possibilities.
Now that I am back on shore, projects finished, adventures lived, muscles tired, eyes filled with sun, all I need right now is to lie down on a soft blanket of leaves and snow and rest.
Autumn turns down the light, and winter promises cozy weekend mornings under soft blankets, hot coffee in hand.
As much as I dread the endless gray Midwest winter ahead, I am glad that spring is not waiting at the end of this summer, but autumn. I take comfort in the metaphor this season embodies. It might be because I am entering the fall of my life, and I now need two seasons to recover from half a year of actively noticing, pursuing, and consuming life. And I’ll take it. I won’t fight it just to delude myself that I’m still young and vibrant. I know I am still young, though my youth is as round as a full moon. That is why I must pause now and rest in the mild moonlight until I gather enough energy to happily face another spring.
There is joy in admitting this truth to myself and accepting such a change in my life. I do not resent this becoming, but welcome it. I’m ready to rest. Johnny Baby is already waiting for me on the couch, cozy and warm.
What kind of changes is your life forcing you to accept this fall? What kind of joys are hiding behind them?
