As Good as Spring Itself

We’ve been having spring all winter, and now that it is spring, there’s snow on the nearby mountains and saturated storm clouds mixing with the flurries of blossom (pear, almond, apricot) everywhere around.  Things are just a bit mixed up.  Today’s supposed to be sunny, but I haven’t seen the sun—until I write that, and it comes out momentarily, making me wonder if I might go out and walk.  I have a day off, hard earned because of working Saturday, and want to make the most of it.

“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest.  The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits.  People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”

—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

I want a day with no limits.  A stream-of-consciousness day given to writing, reading, walking, blossom viewing, croissants with sour cherry jam, slowly preparing chicken and eggplant tagine, romping with dogs, wandering at Allied Arts or Pillar Point harbor, riding the ferry all around the bay with layers of sweaters and a thermos of spiced hot chocolate, a visit to an old church where someone is playing Albinoni on the organ like that day up on the St. Bernard Pass, the smell of white bean soup simmering for later in the week and steaming the windows, planting some purple morning glory seeds, and being happy every minute on my own or with some of those lovely people good as spring itself.

image:  The Vegetable Garden with Trees in Blossom, Spring, Pontoise, 1877, Camille Pisarro