This post is dedicated to my dad, whom I especially miss this time of year. Born March 21, he loved spring; he loved Easter; and though his life was marked by unrelenting valleys, he never lost hope.
It's Easter this Sunday, and despite the fact that snow showers have appeared the past few mornings in Palouse, the calendar assures us it's spring.
I've blogged often of my attachment to the changing seasons, but that doesn't mean that they're all created equal in my eyes. I'm a mild weather gal, no bones about it.
I tolerate—and reluctantly enjoy—summer and winter.
However, I LOVE—and eagerly anticipate—fall and spring.
The philosophic among us contend that you can only appreciate the mountaintop when you've struggled up from the depths of the valley.
And, so it is with spring on The Palouse.
Spring's welcome reprieve from winter's stubborn grip is all the sweeter as traces of snow still dot the landscape.
It's that first brush of warm sun on your skin that causes you to simultaneously-inhale-and-clench-your-eyes in a reflexive attempt to restore the vitamin D that has all but been sucked out of your body's every nook and cranny.
It's birds chirping in stark contrast to the stillness of winter.
It's the saturated colors of tulips and daffodils, where for months a sea of gray has loomed on the horizon.
Spring holds the untapped potential of a new season - a season whose outcome is not yet etched in history, and where the unknown could yet yield something truly wonderful.
Like Easter itself, spring brings hope. And in a world where we all must struggle up from the depths of the valleys more often than we wish, hope's arrival is always welcome, indeed.
-The Grocer's Wife