All the spring things



Funny how just a nominal change in season (the end of one month clicking over to the beginning of the next) can turn the world on its ear/head/some other extremity.

I was a spring baby. Actually I wasn’t, because I was born in the Northern Hemisphere. I was a September baby. Apparently there was a spider crawling up the waiting room wall at the time of my birth. So I was also a lucky baby.

But growing up in NZ, spring paddocks always elated me. My grandmother, Didy, always called me all the spring things, because of my identification with spring as a child.

I also was surrogate mother to an orphaned lamb for one night only, deep in the newly sprung spring of a fresh evening in South Canterbury some time in the early 80s. We made a dent in a hay bale and made swaddlings out of muslin sort of baby blanket material. I administered the bottle before my bedtime. I woke early in the morning – I remember it still being dark – only to find there was only the dent, no lamb. I can’t remember if I was told the truth or not, but it was a gentle version of it, anyway.

So, to this spring. I was enjoying a short-lived hibernation. Rain on the roof and firing up our industrial oven. Making things and sleeping. New Roman blinds with blackout linings. Reading for a mere nanosecond and then losing my book in a tangle of sheets. Now extra light is seeping into the corners of the day; there’s so much crispness and blue about the place. Now all I’m waiting for is the smell of cut grass – the ultimate seasonal/sensory clusterfuck.

I have my shiny red sandals at the ready, but I’m still not feeling it. The squint and the glare. The bolshiness of all that sunlight. But I am all the spring things, so I will come around. It’s change, that’s all.


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