I told you I'd see you again.

On the slow unfurling of Spring

Still Life by Fidelia Bridges, 1870

Is there anything as fascinating as watching the stages of a fiddlehead unfurl in the Spring? All curls and fractals and chartreuse life.

And of course, the unfurling of the fern echoes our slow unfurling from a long, cold winter. Our faces unfurrow, our muscles being to relax as negative degrees warm to 30s and then 40s and — glorious — 50 degree days. Snow-covered pastures and glaring cloud-covered skies slowly (so, so slowly) begin to faintly color, a white canvas with outlines of hills and evergreens. The watercolor brush is full of water and paints muted strokes. Brushstroke builds upon brushstroke, and finally, color appears in full saturation.

But Spring doesn’t look like what you pictured, daydreamed about, in the darkness of winter. It’s messier.

Spring isn’t just mud season in Northern Maine. It’s also trash-that-blew-into-the-field-and-was-covered-by-snow-for-six-months recovery season. It’s discover-which-trees-fell-in-the-back-lot season. It’s a weird, joyful, mourning time before the earth blooms full force in Summer.

But now… the dooryard is beginning to green. The tulips and daffodils and lilacs have small buds. The chickens and sheep loudly proclaim their joy of being out of the barn. The barn cats find mice. The swallows muddy up the house eaves. The emerging has started. The unfurling has begun.

It was a long, dark winter, but I feel the sun on my bare arms again.