While snow hits New England, spring blooms in San Francisco. I run through the park, take the turn at Ocean Beach, and wave to the three lucky buffalo who signify a good week ahead. The dogwood is out along with strange tropical plants.
Whether I like it or not, the world continues to turn. The days lengthen for last light past five thirty. Spring heralds fresh growth and new beginnings. After two seasons of darkness, I will need time to shed my mantle of dead leaves to come out of my hobbit hole.
I’d like to start a spring ritual of a weekly afternoon cocktail party outdoors in a different park. With friends, we can watch together the progress of this most startling of seasons.