Friday, March 21, 2014

driftspin snowsun

this morning's sun, from my work window 31 floors up

Yesterday was the first day of spring. It was also the first day of the Persian New Year, Nowruz. This morning felt like a beautiful reflection of a new season starting until oh, about 10:30. Then it started to snow. Thirty-one floors up at work, the snow appeared to be flying up from the ground, ascending instead of falling. I'm no longer surprised when the weather does this.

This winter has been the worst I can ever remember experiencing. In 2010 we had a massive amount of snow dumped on us and the city ground to a halt for a few days. The University(my work) was closed for 3 days and that is unheard of. I was stranded(happily) at a friend's house, and a group of us walked in the middle of the street when we went out exploring. It was the easiest way to get around and there weren't any cars on the street. Inconvenient, but a lot of fun. And, eventually, the snow melted and time moved on.

We've had a fair amount of snow this winter, but what bothered me the most? A steady stockpile of negative degree days. A week with one day in the 50s and the next in the 'teens. I say to friends this season broke me, and I know it's true.

I wait for spring like a fool. I hear birds in the morning and get all dizzy in the chest. Light fades later each evening. We are slowly but surely emerging from our frigid wreckage. I glare at my sweaters and I glare at my unworn sandals. I want to look up and be surprised by the buds of leaves on the trees. But no. Not yet.

Every late spring, when the trees are just getting their full heads of hair, I take note of the brand new leaves still slightly pinched together on the branches. They start small and almost folded, heads bowed. They start in such a newborn green--the color of growth. A color that only nature can manage. I take note of them, and imagine their months going forward. The summer thunderstorms that will whip them into shape. The blaring sun that might bleach their tips, darken their middles. Someone's absent-minded gesture of reaching up to snap one off while walking. That smell of soil, of green, that sweet sweet wind. And, at the end of every summer, I consider those same leaves as they begin to turn to fire and drift to the ground. The summer they have lived through. Their sun-tired forms, final au revoir to branches. Brittle piles of another season under the belt. The cycle is a miracle to me.

Near my house, I cross a small bridge on my bike ride into work. I have rode across it in all sorts of weather--pouring rain, twenty degrees, sunrises, dusk, pitch black after a late class. I always glance at the trees on either side. Nature is as much a witness as we are. We burst forth in similar fashions. We are influenced by the elements around us. And right when we think we can't be anymore green, we turn to fire and sunsets; we match beloved bark in shades of caramel, chocolate. We part with branches, our placement. And the wind might ask: where would you like to go?

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