The stupefyingly horrendous winter we just experienced has me traumatized. When I open the door of my office building at the end of the day, I still expect to be blasted by a gust of cold air. I truly expect to have to navigate the story-tall mounds of snow piled up at major intersections, even though we’re just days away from Memorial Day weekend.
Mindfulness doesn’t come easily to me. On my mother’s side, relatives of every generation I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting has been deep inside his or her own head. We call it “frettin’.” But this spring has me living in the moment.
In the depths of February, I figured I would never again experience the small pleasures of a warm day: Sitting on couch with the windows open, the sound of far-away sirens and rustling trees wafting in along with the breeze. The joy of leaving the house in a light sweater, which is enough to keep me warm instead of the down coat which threatened to fuse itself to my skin. Getting up a little bit earlier (which isn’t hard, given that the sun rises before 6am) and delighting when I miss the walk sign at each crosswalk between the train station and my office because it means another few moments basking in the sun before heading inside.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m still deep inside my own head for 98 percent of the day. But oh, it’s wonderful to be truly grateful for spring.