Dear Spring

An ode to the push-pull of starting over.

Dear Spring
by Mark Elliott

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Dear Spring,

You are the morning of the year. And for that reason alone, I understand why people love you best. Your redbuds burst forth in dime-sized blooms, six and eight at a time, along smooth brown stems. Your essence spreads across the top of the hill, among cedars, poplars, and beech trees.

You arrive as sparkling sprigs of white dogwood flashing in the shadows like paparazzi bulbs.

You are the sunrise. In fact, you are the sunrise all day long. I understand why people love you best.

You are noisy, clumsy, and alive. Songbirds wake up to your alarm and then rouse the rest of the backyard. The jays, robins, wrens, and red-winged blackbirds beckon gray squirrels, no longer driven by panicked conservation. They call out to the smooth black racer sunning its long sleek body along the top of a jagged chert-rock wall, to the eastern cottontails leaping from clover to birch bark and back again, and to the dead-still doe standing just behind the berm where she thinks no one can see her.

Every season bears its own clichés, but yours are worth dying for: birth, renewal, fresh bloom, sweet, alive, love, and best of all, youth. Ah, youth, I understand why people love you best.

Photo by J Lee on Unsplash

Your perfume is not old or heavy, like the kind blue-haired ladies wear head to toe while browsing the new-fashions aisle of the last department store left standing on Main Street.

It isn’t manly, or even remotely musky, like the smoke from yesterday’s campfire or the dampness of drying leaves upon the ground. And it is certainly not the smell of late afternoon, early evening, or midnight. Yours is an earlier smell, a newer smell, an awake smell. I understand why people love you best.

You often arrive ahead of expectation, especially here in the south. And on your first day, we naively worship your warmth, only to damn it in short order. We are quick to take off our shirts and don our tight-fitting shorts at first sight of you, only to change them moments later when we realize you did not bring all we expected. Still, our naked optimism remains intact, looking forward to the day you deliver entirely.

We begin again with you. We arrive early and stay late because of you. We rekindle old dreams with new faith inspired by you. And even when you show up late, like you so often do high in the western mountains, where the snows and wind chill give you a run for your money, we celebrate you. We celebrate you because you always prevail. Sometimes with a single columbine poking up between frozen ground and rock, or in the constant drip, drip, drip of melting ice. You are often breach in your birth, but relentless, hungry, and arrogant as you cry out into the world. That makes you uniquely American in spirit. I understand why people love you best.

I am tempted to lie about my feelings for you, acquiescing to what seems a simple love affair. I want to tell you I love you best. And I want to tell you that for all the reasons, anyone else would. You are comfortable on my skin. You do not freeze or burn me. I, too, love a good starting-over story.

I am an American boy with DNA steeped in the twin arts of destruction and redemption. I love the drama of tearing down and building back up, especially building back up.

Your short-lived rush of life is a drug I enjoy getting high on. I understand why people love you best.

But I cannot be fickle in the face of morning or lie outright to love’s sanctioned season. So, I will be truthful to you, dear spring. I like the fall better than you, and I adore winter. I won’t bore you with all the reasons. Let’s just say I don’t sweat in my tent or swat at mosquitos while camping along a narrow November creek cutting through the Cumberland Plateau.

I am not a fan of bright light and clarity. To me, obviousness is unimpressive. So the long dark hours of December intrigue me more, plus I’m not scared of the dark–so it doesn’t hold me back.

Smores, hot chocolate, whiskey, and my beloved flannel shirts are all the better without you. So, too, are night skies, deep breaths, snuggling, and sad songs–and I must confess, I love a good sad song. But that’s just me.

Don’t feel disappointed, dear spring, for I am quite sure my opinion doesn’t matter to anyone but me. And if it does matter to you, remember this. I will always understand why people love you best.

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I would love to hear what you thought about this essay and if it brought any personal memories or stories to mind. Please feel free to leave a comment. I’ll answer all of them. I would love to strike up a conversation about this piece and your thoughts. Please consider sharing this newsletter with a friend.
Thank you. - Mark