In time of daffodils…

According to Ukrainians, today is the first day of spring. The fact that it is currently 23 degrees Fahrenheit means that I am inclined to not believe them. However, living in Michigan gave me experience with winters that would drag on forever, or else end abruptly in March only to come back for one last snowy slap in the face in the middle of April. I’m used to this kind of weather.

So, I have my spring rituals. I like to think that the things I do will inspire the sun to shine brighter and be warmer. (It is convenient that the days are getting longer, because I’m able to ignore science and go with the idea that my habits are coaxing in the springtime). I do things like sport inappropriate footwear as soon as the temperatures creep towards the 50s. I stop wearing a winter coat, even if there are flurries. I put away the extra comforter on my bed and the sweatpants that are the bottom half of my at-home uniform. I go for runs in the morning and smile at the daffodils.

But, this winter is terrible. It is very cold and doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon. I can’t put away any of my outer layers because I still have to walk miles in them in the freezing temperatures, and quite frankly, I want all of my toes. (It may seem selfish, as I have 10 of them.) So, I will adapt my routine. I recently bought 3 pots for plants. Tomorrow I will scour the school, looking for plants that I like and surreptitiously clip off pieces of them. After a week of sitting in water on the windowsill, I will have more plants. New life? That’s spring-like. I’ll decorate my classroom with flowers, taking down the snowflake-themed materials. I’ll learn to make excellent blinchiki in the traditions of Maslenitsa. Spring will come, eventually.

For now, I will leave you with a poem, one of my favorites. If you have the opportunity to read this with the windows open, with fresh air breezing in and birds cheerfully calling to each other, please do.

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead —
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging —

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted —

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

-Mary Oliver