No Spring Skips its Turn

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. – Hal Borland

“Mama, you should have seen that sunrise.  It was purple and pink and orange and red,” my daughter greeted me yesterday morning as I stumbled into the kitchen in search of coffee.  “It was totally beautiful.”

She’s an early riser, like her father.  But he’s out of town, so I’ve been rising with her at first light to get her fed and off to school.

“Beautiful, huh?”

“Yes,” she nodded very earnestly as only kids can.  “It’s gonna be a great day.”

I smiled at her enthusiasm, even if I didn’t feel it.

The last few weeks have been weighing me down, like heavy, wet snow clumping to my pant legs and the soles of my boots.  Maybe it’s the weather.  While sunny and not too terribly cold, the wind is enough to make the sanest person go a little nutso.  Maybe it’s the animosity and venom simmering on social media.  Or maybe it’s just that time of the year.  Not still winter, but not yet spring.  Regardless, I’ve been blah.

So yesterday’s balmy temperatures and gentle breezes helped me right things again. Camera in hand, like every good Wyoming photographer, I wandered the countryside.  I had no real purpose, no plan.  Just a stirring in my soul that said “Get out.  Breathe.  Live.”

I went.  I drove the back roads and the highways around Goshen County.  I watched wildlife and contemplated cattle.  I found a spot to pull over, get out, and just sit and be.  As I looked down at my spot among the native grasses, I noticed it.  One small green plant pushing up through the crusted soil.

Spring.

This time, the smile made it past my lips and into my heart.

Hope.

And once I saw that, I started noticing other changes, too.  Farmers preparing their fields for planting.  A robin’s distinct twitter.  Sandhill cranes flying overhead.

When my daughter arrived home from school, we visited the neighbor’s farm to see their new lambs and calves.  When it was time to head home, Wyokiddo asked to take the long way and could we roll down the windows.

So I took the backroads again, my daughter riding shotgun and singing along to the radio at the top of her lungs, thankful that spring never skips its turn.

–Teresa