Sandy Gregor

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Snow is our most magnificent gift wrapping, spring our most wondrous gift.
The best of times, the worst of times
Snow is our most magnificent gift wrapping; spring our most wondrous gift

I stood in the brilliant afternoon light eyeing the snowfield behind my house. I should have gone to get the snowshoes, but with just my tennies I plunged ahead. Fifty yards ahead of me, through a foot or more of snow, was the one bare patch of ground in my yard – indeed, in the several acres of field around it.

I wanted to stand on it.

This was ground I had not stood on or even seen for months. I walked across that patch of ground in 12 strides, and then I turned around and walked back, and then I did it all over again. I was grounded.

I remember noting on Tax Day of some past years that the very last of the snowpack on the north side of the barn had disappeared. This year, of course – the year of years – may be a record breaker. The snowpile on the north side of the barn is still five feet high. But it is going.

Robin lust

Barely 10 days ago, I was courting depression. The weather was gray and dreary and cold again. I’d been watching the robins in West Farmington for weeks, wondering if I’d ever see one in Temple. I complained to anyone who would listen that I had had all I could take of winter, with no idea of what my alternative choices were. It all seemed very grim, and felt as though it would last forever.

The notion that it is darkest just before dawn is basic to our culture, a ground rule for faith of all kinds. How could I have forgotten?

The sky was clear the next morning. The sun rose warm and strong. When I opened the door to let the pup out before breakfast the winter stillness was broken by a familiar melody. One of those West Farmington robins had come adventuring. Despite the relentless snow, he claimed his territory with strong clear notes – and afterward retired to the more certain food supply of West Farmington. The next day, on the verge of the road, I saw the first new shoots of green. In another day, the robins were back for good. Then the south bank by the road melted bare. The phoebe began screeching near the barn. The sun coaxed the first daffodil shoots out of that bare south bank, and a bud began swelling out of one. Then I counted seven buds, and the next day, 12.

A great gift

I love this slow unfolding.

Each day has its gift: The pair of hooded mergansers in the Temple Stream, the kestrel I spied on the telephone wire on the way home from shopping, Rita’s crocuses next to the foundation, my snowdrops blooming the moment the snow receded from their spot near the drive.

This will go on for weeks.

At one point in my life, I had a rather snooty feeling about gift wrapping. I thought it was a waste of good resource, not really necessary. But I learned what was obvious to most people: It is the element of the unknown, the secret, the anticipation and the revelation, that enhances the gift. Snow is our most magnificent gift wrapping, spring our most wondrous gift.

When I was dragging myself through those last dark days of our too-long winter, after weeks of being shut-in recovering from surgery and then the flu, I forgot the secret of winter. It never seems so hard to take if you don’t close yourself off from it, if you get out into it and become part of it. In short, if you pay attention.

That, I think, is also the secret of spring – attending to each subtle change. Think of the trees – still now in their winter harshness, the dark calligraphy of stark branches against the sky – and what is to come. First, the swelling buds thickening each twig. Then the blossoms – whole hillsides in subtle shadings of red, apricot, yellow-green. Leaves the size of a mouse’s ear, in one sudden warm spell, become curtains to hide the both the intimate activities of the birds and the long views to the hills. Easy to forget all this is going on, and keep your eyes on the steering wheel and the yellow line.

Who knows how many springs any of us will have? This one is ours. Be part of it, let it be part of you, and pay attention.