This Is Spring?

Yesterday was the first full day of spring. It is a time of hope and renewal, particularly in northern climes where, for several months, much of the landscape has laid dormant, animals (including some people) have secluded themselves in hibernation, and birds escaped to their condos in the Caribbean or on the Pacific coast of Mexico.

In my home state of Minnesota, it snowed all day and into the evening, an annoying occurrence for those looking for light at the end of winter’s tunnel, though one that is not altogether unexpected in March. It actually looked pretty this morning, coating the tree branches and covering the ground in a clean blanket of white.

(Our esteemed local television and radio weather reporters proclaim with the glee of a ten-year-old at a Hannah Montana concert the coming of the annual “state tournament snowstorm”, a moniker once given to late season blizzards of a foot or more of snow, but now applied to any snowfall exceeding one inch during one of the high school hockey or basketball tournaments.)

It also happened to snow this past Tuesday – a couple of inches of heavy wet slushy snow – “heart attack snow” as the Minneapolis newspaper called it, a rather silly embellishment if you ask me, purposely chosen to prey on the perverse pride my fellow residents take in making as big a deal as possible of every weather “event”, however nondescript.

The long cold winter hasn’t been overly harsh, but seems unwilling to release its grip, even with the arrival of spring – the vernal equinox, according to the calendar. I look out my window and continue to see the same vision of shared color between sky and ground – a drab milky gray that also drains the color from all other objects – buildings, cars, trees, people.

I never really noticed this phenomena before this past year. Of course, this was the first winter when I had the opportunity to observe it, as I’ve been spending my days at home, able to gaze out the window and take long walks through my neighborhood, rather than being cooped up in an office building, sitting in a cubicle or windowless underground lab.

We are slightly less than six months from the 2008 Twin Cities 3-Day – 181 days, to be exact. Two entire seasons between this time of snow-covered sidewalks and the sun-splashed warmth of a weekend filled with hope, love, and the way the world ought to be.

I see the sun trying to force its way through the clouds. Maybe I’ll go for a walk.