When I was a kid and we lived in Bangladesh, we received a stack of letters from a class of fifth graders in America. They said things like, “I’m on a softball team. Do you know what softballl is?”
Unfortunately, I did know what it was because at that point in my life, I had spent some time stateside and was also attending the American International School in Dhaka. I was pretty good at games like soccer, probably because I had been playing it most of my life—pick-up games played barefoot in muddy fields. I could run fast which also made me good at track. But softball…? I didn’t have nearly as much experience. And something about trying to hit a fast-moving ball with, basically, a stick felt nearly impossible. Whenever we played it in P.E., I was the last one chosen for the teams, and even then it was done with the utmost reluctance, after searching behind me in hopes that some forgotten classmate was hiding there.
A couple letters (they looked like maybe they’d been copied off each other), said, “It’s spring here. Do you know what spring is? Spring is when the flowers bloom…” Jenny, my older sister, and I laughed out loud as we read these. How dumb did these kids think we were?! OF COURSE we knew what spring was! We’d read about it in books and seen illustrations of the four seasons.
Bangladesh didn’t have much in the way of distinguishable seasons. It was varying levels of hot and humid for much of the year, with a few months of “winter” that could get chilly enough to require sweaters and jackets and the flannel nightgowns our grandmother made us in order to stay warm in houses that were built to feel cool during the majority of the year. In the summer when the monsoons began, everything flooded, and this was probably the most obvious “season”. We usually took a holiday in India or Pakistan around that time, and I remember seeing the land stretch out under the plane like a vast sheet of blue glass with little dots sticking out of it—houses here and there, a clump of palm trees, a road.
Now, though, I’ve lived much of my life in places with four very distinct seasons, and herein lies a sort of magic that never fails to astound me. There’s a unique beauty to each season—the lush green of summer; the fiery colors of fall; the stark beauty of bare trees and frozen ponds and, of course, snow in winter. But spring feels the most miraculous of all because winter has seemed so definite, so terminal, and then suddenly, I catch glimpses of life unfurling once again.
It’s such a miracle that when I see the first real signs of spring returning, I absolutely lose my mind. Matt will be driving down the road, and I’ll see a tree covered in tiny white blossoms and gasp dramatically. “LOOOK!!!!! LOOOOOOOK!!!!! There are BUDS on that TREE!!!!!”
Once his soul returns from its brief departure from his body, Matt will say something like, “We’ve talked about this, Joy. If I’m driving, you’re only supposed to gasp when…” He’ll move his hand in little circles, waiting for me to supply the correct answer.
“It’s spring?”
Two notable things I did in the month of March (see also: why I haven’t written a post all month):
–I worked with a small cohort on a big project regarding my memoir manuscript. It was so beneficial on many levels, but it also took a lot of effort and time. I’d explained to my family how I really needed to focus on it, that it was a Big Deal. So naturally, Matt had to go on a two-week work trip, and during that time, one of my kids had three different illnesses. The other two were sick as well, though they did not partake of such a wide smorgasbord of viruses in such a short time.
–My wonderful mother-in-law came to visit (she’s still here). We hadn’t seen her in a couple years, and we’ve had the loveliest time catching up, soaking in each others’ company, showing her our home here. Last weekend, we took a trip to Paris, a four-hour drive from here. I’ve seen Paris now in every season, and spring might be my favorite. But the wild spring weather kept things very interesting as we went from beautiful spring sunshine to hail to sunshine again.
I know that’s exactly the kind of weather that spring, and especially March, is (in)famous for. In a similar vein, March is one of those months that stirs up strong memories and feelings of both the best and hardest kinds for me. It’s the month of Matt’s birthday (best) and also the month of my beloved Granddad’s birthday (also wonderful) which was the same day that we left Bangladesh when I was ten years old (hard/ heartbreaking). When my kids were sick this month, I remembered how we always seem to get the sickest this month. At age one, Skyler (my second-oldest) had to be hospitalized for three days in March with a horrible stomach flu.
Yesterday, Good Friday, I spent three hours at the emergency room with Lilly who was having horrible ear pain. As we waited in the exam room, the pain worsened until she was crying and shaking. I pressed the call button twice before someone came, and I begged them—almost in tears myself—to give her something that would take her pain away. I’d prayed, I’d given her all the OTC medications I safely could. As we waited, her eardrum perforated. One of the hardest things I think you can do as a mom is to watch your kid suffer in pain, knowing you’ve done everything you can and it wasn’t enough.
But there was something deeply humbling about that moment falling on Good Friday, the reminder of the end of myself, that I am not meant to fix everything. It showed me yet again the desperate need I have for the Love that was shown on a cross two thousand years ago.
Today, Lilly is doing much better, and we took a stroll around the gardens at Schloss Schwetzingen, a place we’ve wanted to show my mother-in-law ever since we first visited not long after we arrived in Germany. We walked on paths dotted with white petal confetti and saw daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips.
I thought about how I really didn’t know what spring was when I received those letters so many years ago. I love reading, of course, but you can’t just read about spring, or look at pictures, and think you truly know what it is. You have to experience the long and quiet pause of winter—the stillness, the waiting, the moment of thinking (even if you know better) that the trees will only ever have a few dead leaves clinging to their skeletal branches. Then you will understand the awe as you notice the buds swelling on trees or skinny stems standing tall from the ground, like ballerinas waiting in the dark wings, rustling the curtains, quietly listening for the cue to burst onto the stage. And when they do, you’ll fight to keep your loud gasps of wonder in check at the beauty and miracle of it all: life returning once again, so beautiful even in all the mess.
I always try to make a pie for Pi Day (March 14, aka 3.14). I’m not known for loving math. But if I’m known for loving pie, that would be okay with me. Any excuse for it is a good excuse. This month, because I was so busy, I looked for an especially easy recipe on Pinterest (I think my search words were just “easy pie”), and found this Chocolate Crack Pie. It was everything it claims to be. Easy-breezy and insanely, addictive-ly delicious. The one thing to note, though, is that after you bake it, you need to chill it. I did not realize this until too late. I stuck it in the freezer for a little while because the inside is runny when it comes out of the oven. That helped. It was sort of like lava cake and chocolate pie having a baby. We might have licked our plates when we finished.
Heads up: April is National Poetry Month! I used to write poems back in high school, college, and a little beyond. My poetry ranged from “not good” to “I die a little every time I think about tormenting my parents with readings of it”. But one of my happy memories from high school was when I switched out of AP Lang to take two English classes so that I could graduate early, and ended up in a class called Poets and Semantics. Every Friday was “Poetry Day.” The teacher turned off the lights and lit candles, and we read poems—both ones we’d written, and ones we’d found and fallen in love with. After each reading, we’d snap our “applause” beatnik style. Thanks to my creativity group, I’ve been introduced to some wonderful Poets here on Substack. I’ve talked before about Rebecca Ferguson at The Sunday Snuggle but her words are so good, it’s worth my mentioning again that you should really be subscribed to her. She frequently contributes to another favorite: Part-Time Poets. There are many amazing women featured there, but for the sake of time, I will highlight only one more: Alyssa L. Case at How Do I Say This? Be sure to check out her poem “Today’s Resolution” from the beginning of the year.
You may recall that at the very end of this post, I mentioned that my one resolution for the year was to only wear shoes that didn’t hurt my feet. This, unfortunately, meant getting rid of (donating) some shoes I really loved. One day, I was at the exchange on base and saw a pink pair of these Converse platform high tops on clearance. I tried them on, and—well, I’m not usually one for impulse buys, but I instantly knew they were coming home with me. They are the most comfortable shoes I own aside from my Hoka running shoes (that I try to save for actual running and workouts). Wyatt calls them my “big foot shoes” (*sigh* middle school boys), but most people pay compliments. Even if they didn’t, though, I’d love them because they’ve been just the right mix of comfortable and fun.
Anyway, that’s it for now, for March. Wishing you all the peace and hope of Resurrection Day!
One, I loved reading about some of your childhood travel experiences and all of the places you’ve called home. ❤️
Two, I will be making that chocolate pie asap!
Three, thank you so much for the compliment of recommending my Substack —sharing poetry still takes a lot of courage for me and I am incredibly grateful for your encouragement!
Hugs!!
Spring isn’t my favorite season. But I loved your thoughts and descriptions of it. It feels like it takes so long for spring to actually arrive in Montana, and we get several false starts. So it’s hard to be full on excited. 😆 And spring = mud, which can make me grouchy after awhile.
The pie recipe looks good! I’m going to try and make it this spring!