This winter wasn’t too bad for seasonal depression. We had, for Salt Lake, extraordinary air quality, with only 2 marked inversions that I can recall. We had lots of hazy days, of course, and a number of brief inversions, but the socked-in, stinking filth that mars our season and won’t let up was the mildest in my memory. That’s a big deal, because my friends scream at me annually, “You say that every year!” when I curse our politicians and swear this is the worst I’ve ever seen it.
Consequently, I didn’t feel too down – like gripping ’til release from cold pain – so I was a little surprised at the jump in my mood when the sun turned and brought us back into my favorite season. I guess that’s all it is. It’s just my favorite. I love Spring snow, I love Spring rain, I love Spring sun! Oh, the blue of the sky in angled light! I love how quickly green comes in. I swear there’s more on the branches when I get home than I admired in the morning over coffee. Most of all, I love the blooms.
I really think my birthday is the best one. Forsythia’s bold yellow has made my heart sing for weeks and by the end of April, most shrubs have had time to get fat and luscious, but the trees are still growing, promising, changing, blossoming. I love to bike on my day. That seems to be the week the blooms finally give way to tiny fruit, and it’s like rain! A purple, white shower of petals and perfume!
I don’t even mind my allergies, which are so bad I sometimes think I’m going to vomit. Does anyone else get that? Where you feel nauseous before you sneeze? And if you can’t get the sneeze, you’re sure it’s an errant flu?
Ahhhhh! Who cares? It’s Spring!
God loves April babies more, but May’s His favorite month. I say that to my dad every year, for his birthday. (Seriously, is there anything more beautiful than the second week of May?) Now, June’s a beauty! She’s like a 25 yr-old supermodel, mature but new yet and glowing. My best friend sneaks her birthday in there mid-month, right before the solstice, when it gets too hot, the leaves begin their fight for life in the desert, and the foothills turn brown. We’re smart like that.