the birth of a season

 

The birds were chirping this morning. I briskly walked my morning routine: across two yards, across a Subway parking lot and through the crosswalk of a busy intersection, down the entrance to Harding and then through to campus. Usually my upper body is bundled in my red trench coat, my feet tucked safely into my Madden knockoff lace-up leather boots, coffee in my left hand.

Today though, spring was hinting in the air. The sun was beaming and the sky was a magnificent blue and the birds--did you hear? They were chirping.  I forgot my coffee on the kitchen counter. I walked coatless.

I get a bit of that seasonal depression, I think. When the winter season settles in thick, when Christmas is over but it’s not quite Easter, I sink deep into a funk. I’m happy, I’m joyous, but I’m uninspired. I stay inside. I eat. I workout less, drink less water, write less. I take less pictures, listen to less music, and sleep more often.

I have a pep in my step after my morning walk to class, now. My heartbeat is a little stronger. I scooped up my laptop, came to Starbucks, cracked my fingers, turned on Coldplay, and began to write.

Goodness if it isn’t a feeling I missed. I feel rusty, it’s been that long.

And I don’t really have anything important to say.

But the birth of spring is upon is and with it much, much more.