Hello, friends. Welcome to my (slightly delayed, newly-moved-to-Substack) March newsletter, For the Noticers. I’m so glad you’re here. Read on for some thoughts about what I’m noticing as the seasons shift from winter to spring…
I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm
I’m as jumpy as a puppet on a string…
--Richard Rodgers & Oscar Hammerstein, “It Might as Well Be Spring”
Every year, it amazes me again: the way the light shifts as February turns to March, growing sharper, brighter and (slightly) warmer, as winter slides away and spring creeps in to take its place. After the Daylight Savings time change (exacerbated, this year, by jet lag after a much-needed trip out west), the evenings are spacious, the light stretching into the sky until well after 7 p.m. But from my perch on top of the hill in East Boston, I can hear winter’s winds hanging on, rustling the still-bare tree branches and clanging through the masts of the white-wrapped sailboats in the shipyard.
Some mornings, there are whitecaps out my window, chilly bits of foam ruffling the surface of Boston Harbor. The calendar says winter is over, and the spring bulbs didn’t have much snow to contend with this year. But spring is still emerging here as it always does: slowly, gradually, fitfully and not quite as fast as I want it to.
In these March days, I often arrive home in time to watch the sunset light leak out of the sky: bright golds and oranges and streaks of coral pink giving way to cobalt, cerulean, indigo, deep velvety black. That gradual turning—or the sharp, sudden gladness of afternoon sun on my face—sparks a joy tinged with melancholy, that inescapable restlessness I often feel in the spring.
I grew up with sudden, abrupt seasonal shifts: the weather in West Texas can change in an instant, from bright sunshine to bracing windstorms, or pouring rain and even hail. Our winters bring bitter winds from Canada, sweeping down the Great Plains and through the Texas Panhandle, till they land in the sprawling mid-size towns I still think of as home. The change to summer can feel just as surprising: one day it’s 40 degrees, the next day it’s 80, and we stow the jackets and sweaters, pull out a pair of sandals and a favorite short-sleeved shirt.
Spring in New England, by contrast, often comes quietly. As Ben Weatherstaff told Mary Lennox in a Yorkshire garden long ago, the flowers here don’t sprout up overnight. “They’ll poke up a bit higher here, and push out a spike more there,” he tells her, “an’ uncurl a leaf this day an’ another that. You watch ‘em.”
What Ben didn’t say—but which I know Mary must have learned, too—is that spring’s progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes mild, sunny mornings are followed by wind, rain, and even snow. Crocuses may poke up their budding heads but stay firmly sheathed for a few days, before the air warms enough to coax open their little purple faces. The neon-yellow shock of witch hazel arrived right on time this year, but I was shocked, this week, to see the first pops of pink on the weeping cherry trees.
Some of this seasonal scrambling is due to climate change, I know, but some of it is just spring: “starry-eyed and vaguely discontented,” as Rodgers and Hammerstein have it. It’s capricious, teasing, sometimes heartbreaking; as my friend Christie said the other day on Instagram, sometimes we savor the spring blossoms all but knowing they’ll be blighted by a late frost. We pull out lighter layers one week, only to reach again for thick sweaters as the mercury drops again. Shivering on my morning runs, I watch the daffodils and snowdrops (hardier than me!) stand up to the frigid late-March winds.
Christie also pointed out a tendency I often share: a focus on the “best,” “ideal” or “perfect” form of something, which makes it hard to notice the “very good.” She was (nominally) talking about her magnolia tree, how she wished its pink glory would linger into Eastertide, but knew it would likely be blasted by a sneaky cold snap.
I thought about my own life: how sometimes all I can see are the lacks, the disappointments, the empty spaces. How I wish for more creative success, more local friends I could call for brunch or tea or a museum date, more disposable income to plan the trips I dream of. How, sometimes, those unfulfilled dreams obscure the goodness that already exists, here in my Eastie life: a hug from Nikki before yoga class on a Monday. An enthusiastic greeting from Gigi, the office dog; a moment of laughter as my colleagues blast Cher; a solo trip downtown to take in a concert or a museum. The trip I just returned from, a blissful week in San Diego and then Tucson, soaking up sunshine and tacos and time with dear friends.
These things may not be perfect (what life is?), but they are very, very good. And they are part of a life I could only begin to imagine when, nearly five years ago, I left my marriage and my old neighborhood, and moved over here across the harbor to an eyrie that became my haven, my home.
Sometimes I still ache for all that I’ve lost: the communities or people or relationships I used to call mine, which aren’t mine anymore. Sometimes I end up comparing my life to others’, and wondering if my friends who’ve made different choices are happier or more fulfilled or less uncertain of themselves. Sometimes I worry that the best is behind me: that the challenges of the past few years, and my responses to them, have resulted in a life that will always be less than. But I know – most of the time – that this is a lie.
I could never have predicted that I’d end up here, in a studio apartment by the water, spending my days in a converted firehouse listening to guitar riffs and ukulele and trying to do good work. I couldn’t have predicted the challenges, certainly: job loss, a breakup, a pandemic. But I also couldn’t have imagined the joy.
I do have some agency over how my life unfolds, though increasingly I’m reminded that I have less control than I think I do. But I know I can’t control or predict or shape the patterns of springtime. I can only wait, and watch, and learn to appreciate the good gifts of this moment, even when the winter winds still howl. I can notice the budding daffodils, and give thanks for the sun on my face, even while I’m bundled up in a cozy plaid scarf and my signature jade-green coat. I can choose to embrace the sweet melancholy of spring – those pink-and-blue sunsets along with emerging hellebores and fuzzy magnolia buds – and keep setting down roots in my life as it is, right here, in this moment, right now.
New on the blog: thoughts on crocuses, and on spring and paying attention.
Reading: Anna Madeley on Mrs. Hall’s journey (for All Creatures fans). Lyz Lenz on marriage, divorce and moving forward. Margaret Renkl on spring’s intoxications (gift link). And Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s gorgeous forthcoming essays in Bite by Bite.
Listening: My brilliant coworker, actor Kadahj Bennett, on the Lyric Stage podcast. Hilary Gardner’s glorious new jazz album. Birdsong - jays, gulls, house sparrows, robins and some I can’t identify. And the still-clanking radiators in my apartment.
Savoring: Mexican chocolate icebox cookies. The first tiny cherry blossoms, and pops of golden daffodils. Clementines by the handful; bright coral toenail polish; show tunes on my morning runs; and (always) cups of strong black tea.
I I love that you've recognized the circuitous route spring often takes getting here, playing hide and seek with our winter weary spirits. It's the same here in Michigan, with cold and snow flurries today. I'm actually embracing this slow start, happy to have some of the wintry days to help me ease into the spring spotlight at a slower pace.
Happy to see you on Substack, Katie. I always appreciate your beautiful writing and reflections.
You are a terrific writer, Katie. I always enjoy your wordsmithing and this edition is no exception. Baseball will fix a lot of springtime’s shortcomings. It nearly always does. :-)