Spring is coming

            I have always been a seeker of beautiful things. As a child, I changed my mind again and again about what kind of career I would have as a grown-up: artist, scientist, musician, gardener, writer. But for each possible path, I was drawn by the same thing. I wanted to spend my time examining the wonder and beauty of the world, and there are many ways to do that.
            It is more difficult than I had hoped to keep that wonder in front of me. I have depression and anxiety that appeared when I was in high school. These things are not just words to me. They are more soul-crushing than any outside obstacle I will ever encounter in my search for wonder and joy. I turn inward, and can no longer see what is outside myself. I continue seeking, but I can not find what I am looking for until I am able to turn away from the broken-ness in my brain and body.
            Perhaps those broken parts will never be completely fixed. I cultivate within myself the strength to reach out again and again because I know that even if I can't be mended, the world is out there and that is where I want to be. A broken person may still appreciate the sheer awesome power of the universe.
            I came to Maine in part to seek out seasons. Glittering snow and ice in the winter, muddy earth in the spring, berries and wild greenery in the summer, and the winding down of the colorful and quiet autumn as the earth falls asleep. This natural clock stirs something in my heart. Somehow with all of the days of the year accounted for as the wheel turns either away from the previous season or toward the next, I find peace in the change. I am not stuck where I am now, because something else is coming. It is easier thus for me to turn my inner eye away from my hurts and toward the physical world in front of me.
            I gave up mild winters in favor of shorter days and deeper cold, months in which the beauty lies in the contrast between brittle, unforgiving ice and the warmth of an orange fire. To me, the cold light of winter only makes the first heat of spring more meaningful. Winter is a passing season. Perhaps my hurts will also pass on to something more comfortable.
           I set little store in the official first day of spring. It is not spring if the bulbs are not starting to sprout and the ground is still frozen. But I can tell spring is coming. I see the tawny leftovers of last year's grass through the snow. My hair is beginning to absorb the returning humidity and revert to its typical texture. Ice that has been seemingly permanently attached to the floor around the animals' water buckets suddenly allows itself to be pried loose.
            The mud is coming. The little green points are coming. The wind is bringing liquid water, banishing the sharp crystalline shards that have scoured my face all winter. Shedding animals coat my gloves with fur. It may be cold now, but spring is coming. Spring is coming. Spring is coming.