I am not a winter person by any means, so the thought that spring could be on the horizon makes my pale, dry, eternally frigid skin jump for joy. But as soon as you start waiting for something, the longer it can seem to take. It is only when we stop seeking signs of spring that the first blossoms begin to bloom.
I have a weekly appointment outside of the city on Thursday afternoons, which always ends at the same time, and takes me through gently rolling hills and fields of grass on my drive back home. Over the past few weeks, this evening commute has been the stage for a magical event, which fills the sky with streams of puffy clouds in hues of indigo and pink, stretching before me to both edges of the horizon.
Since, perhaps, the end of November, I have been driving home from this appointment in the dark. Now, slowly, the days are growing a few minutes longer, and the sunsets are synchronizing with my return journey. The fact that I only follow this particular route once a week means that these additional minutes of daylight makes the changing of the seasons feel more abrupt and unexpected.
While I was soaking in the violets and fuchsias of this evening’s sunset I felt a moment of gratitude and sadness, as I realized that this beauty, just like the darkness of winter, is ephemeral. In a few weeks, the sun will set later, after I have already reentered the city, where the tall buildings block all but a small piece of the sky. I felt grateful for these few short weeks in February, when I have the opportunity to see such a spectacular scene.
And suddenly, I no longer found myself longing for spring, but simply enjoying today.