This time of year always feels turbulent. The transition from winter to spring doesn’t seem to happen in a gentle cascade or a glorious burst of green, but it swings quite violently between the two seasons. A day of sun and warmth reminds me of the vibrancy of spring. The promise of summer is almost ripe in the scent of cut grass and delicate blossoms. I have been content in the dark embrace of winter but a switch suddenly flicks in my body, a seasonal thermostat that now longs for days of sun-warmed skin and bare foot on damp grass.
The next day brings storms and minus temperatures. And this goes on for a month or more. Every year I repeat with silent amusement “ne’er cast a clout ‘til May is out”, while my body protests at the wild fluctuations in temperature. In March, I find this turbulence amusing. The trickster energy of the weather toys with us and our human expectations of neatly defined seasons. By mid-April, I become frustrated. I long for the return of winter, feeling safer in the reliable dark and cold. The distant idea of summer and the long light of the days feels too far away and the backwards/forwards feels too chaotic to trust.
To alleviate the frustration, I walk the same path each morning, threading my way in repetitive circles, creating lines in the dew-heavy grass, stopping to twang the wire fence, or rub my face on the mossy bough of an ancient crab apple tree. This walk-weaving gives my days some kind of wild structure and meaning in the face of seasonal, global and personal turbulence.
Each day brings new beauty and fresh perspectives. I remind myself of how some things are gradually, gently shifting despite the daily elemental turmoil. The lambs pronk in the fields. I see the first line of ducklings following their mum. Siskins, redpolls and goldfinches join the blue tits and nuthatches on the feeders. Sweet cicely, garlic-mustard and dandelion begin to green the hedgerows. My chives are prolific; they seem to have boldly ignored the weather. Bluebells cloak the woodland floors in a sea of fallen sky. The dawn chorus echoes through valleys and cuckoos arrive to steal a space in another bird’s well-made nest.
And so, mid-May arrives, and still the temperatures are swinging wildly, rain showers blast through and my winter woollens are not yet retired to the wardrobe. There have been glimpses of warmer times: a stolen afternoon in the sun, gathering shells and driftwood on a cherished beach, and a bone-achingly cold swim in the sea off the coast of south-west Scotland. A reminder of what is waiting around the seasonal corner. A glimmer of hope.
stravaig 