Up until a week ago, our back yard was buried beneath a layer of grimy, churned up snow, courtesy of the two dogs and multiple rounds of freeze/thaw/freeze. After several mild and sunny days, the yard turned into a muddy mess and a mine-field of dog poop.
Sadly, it comes with having two dogs, a fenced in yard, and a dog door. While my husband takes care of nearly all the yard maintenance and gardening, keeping the yard clear from our dogs' gifts is my job.
I braved the field of battle earlier this weekend and let's just say that if dog leavings were worth money, I'd be a very wealthy woman.
This is not an entire post about dog excrement.
It's about the coming of Spring and change in general.
While I was scouring the ground of subtle and not-so-subtle land-mines, I noticed that one entire garden bed is an explosion of tiny purple crocuses. They are 'volunteer' flowers. We didn't plant them and they've been spreading and returning each March. Depending on the year and the vagaries of the weather, I might not even see them because they are in a part of the yard you can't see from the kitchen door and it's usually too cold and damp for me to want to tramp in the slush to look for them.
But it is a sign that Spring is coming, despite the upcoming French Toast Emergency declared for Monday evening into Tuesday here in the great Northeast.
Despite what everybody around me seems to be saying, I am not a huge fan of Spring--especially not in New England. It's fickle. It changes its mind on a daily basis and just can't settle on its own identity.
It is a season in transition.
I much prefer the middle of winter. It's resolute. It's stark. It's dependable.
Not so early Spring.
I don't trust Spring. We turn the clocks and all of a sudden it's light later. But it's not like there are suddenly more hours of daylight. No, the light is simply shifted. It's a trick.
Change is hard for me. It always has been. I don't do temporary or uncertain very well, but for the most part, I am able to cope. After all, the world is a series of jarring shifts and changes and it's not like I can keep them at bay.
But something about Spring batters at my ability to deal with other uncertainties. It's the time of year I always feel the most vulnerable. It doesn't help that I'm waiting on word from my agent about the manuscript she's reading now. She's only had it for a week and my rational brain knows she'll get to it when she can give it the attention it needs. If only my rational brain were the side of me in complete control.
So don't mind me. I'll just be curled up in the living room watching it sleet tomorrow, thinking evil thoughts about ill-behavied crocuses, mud, and dog poop.