In one human lifetime, we get about seventy springs on average.
How many of them are we actually conscious of?
For too many years I walked right past them asleep. Spring was just a word when I was a child, then a season on the calendar by eighteen. It wasn’t until my thirties that I finally felt the shift in my own bones—the way the light and the green pulled something awake inside me.
But I realized something by that time; just when you think you’ve got the context of spring, life tilts again and the whole meaning changes. The same blossoms have a different impact now—colors more saturated, heavier, carrying the weight of time and things you once knew as “daily life” gone; lost to the ages.
At forty-seven, I feel the impact of spring as part of the bigger cycle: birth, growth, letting go.
It hits in a more truthful way.
If I’m being honest, I was unconscious for most of my springs. Only the last eight or twelve really landed. The rest disappeared in the noise of work, worry, and thinking I had forever. It’s tragic.
But I’m not calling it a tragedy. I think of it more as cold rain waking up dry ground.
From here on out, I’ve made it a priority to be present. Appreciating the grass, face turned up to the longer daylight. Each spring gets greeted like it’s both the first and the last one I’ll ever have.
I keep that average of 70 springs total in my mind.
Too many have already slipped away. Too many were lost in the noise of haphazard biased articulation.
Whatever Springs I have left, I will meet them fully alive.
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