“Like we are children again; like we know how to play again; like the word ‘carefree’ is allowed to temporarily exist in our vocabulary again”.
It has now been a year since the pandemic began;
since the world as we knew it spun swiftly off its axis and morphed into something we could never have imagined.
But with subtle, shifting seasons, Spring has faithfully emerged, bringing with it, all that our collective soul so desperately needed.
Easter always feels to me like a kinder, less forced, slowed-down version of New Year’s;
like an invitation to start fresh, if we want to, rather than a coercion to do so, because we have to;
some sense of agency and control and steadiness that the hungover instability of the New Year takes away from us.
A sense of collective rebirth, but without the heaviness that that word connotes.
Simply a chance to believe again in our ability to create a new beginning for ourselves as we stand at the foot of the collective graveyard of our failed resolutions.
But this time, without the relentless, cyclical pressure of ‘new year, new you’ mantras; or that post-Christmas uncomfortability veiled in forced celebration; or the sharp sting of seasonal fun felt by all who have suffered loss; or our shared dread for the return of January as it threatens to swallow us back into normal working life.
Spring is the second chance-the second breath of air-we all usually need, exactly when we need it.
We no longer rise and fall in a groggy winter haze, trying to catch up with the sun as it far too quickly sinks.
The days feel slower, kinder, fuller, lighter, longer.
When our eyes finally peer up from our 21st century screens, the sun is still waiting for us, crouched between clouds;
like a doting mother at the school gates, her arms stretched to sink into weightlessly after our heavy working day.
The anti-climactic 5 o’clock finish of our adult 9-5s has begun to feel more like the exciting end-of-school bell before we ran out onto the field
to laugh, to laze, to bask in the late-afternoon glow.
Like our worries could just melt into the soothing, soft hues of the skies; the trees; our little swirly Easter eggs.
Like we are children again;
like we know how to play again;
like the word ‘carefree’ is allowed to temporarily exist in our vocabulary again.
Spring slows back down the haste of the heavy New Year;
replacing it, instead, with a sweet nostalgia for the days of our youth, and a simultaneous eagerness for the days of our future.
Spring offers a resurgence of hope, quietly and consistently delivering on its promise for better days to come;
days that our grief might start to find small pockets of peace
in the pastel-coloured tapestries of playful, whimsical skies; in the films of lucent sunlight that linger late into the night; in the golden tracery of nectar that bathes the skin of new-born petals; in the blossom-scented breeze and the budding of new life.
So here is to Spring-the season of the shifting sun-the one that invites us weightlessly into ‘better days to come’.