We’ve had pockets of Spring, I guess. The occasional warm afternoon, some blue sky, tinted gold. The trees are budding certainly, and yes, blooms of pink magnolia stick out against the grey. It’s hard to say the Spring has definitely arrived though. And it’s still pretty chilly.
I’m wondering a lot about life at the moment. No surprise - my Dad’s still in hospital, my Mum is only just about able to walk without two sticks, and I’m in a weird funk about my identity - all the beauty and learning of being less than two years married, and a whole bunch of fears about the future mix around in the paint pot with the failures of the past. It isn’t any wonder that I’m thinking about life.
I put Vivaldi on. Primavera. It’s so joyous and glorious and magnificent; like watching the flowers open in real-time and turn their brilliant new petals towards the sun. From the very first bars there’s the elegance of soaring birds against the fresh white clouds, and the sound of laughter in green grass. Spring should be all about hope, new life, something unseen and young and wonderful.
Perhaps it’s because Easter’s early, or it’s down to global warming or something, but it feels a bit like Spring is struggling to break through the winter. Sammy pointed out that it feels like it’s rained every day of the year so far. I couldn’t disagree - whether that is true or not, it feels like it. Magnolia, yes. Also puddles.
Perhaps I should be patient. Perhaps my breakthrough is on the way. Perhaps all the signs of Spring are shooting up in the shadows, and I’m not seeing them for what they are - promises. Perhaps my Dad will be home and make a full recovery?
Perhaps I’ll figure out what I want to be, and it will satisfy me to pursue it. Perhaps all those other things that weigh on me like heavy skies, will be pierced with warm sunshine, wisping them away like candyfloss, until Vivaldi’s world of magnificent Spring makes sense again.
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