Welcoming March, When Spring is Still a Carrot Dangling On a Stick

I’m quietly waiting for the sun to nudge me out of my winter hideout

March is a funny month.

It holds all the promise of spring while the cold lingers as a sharp reminder that winter isn’t yet done with us.

In March it’s easy to forget that spring is just around the corner, and, instead, feel a dragging hopelessness of the endless grey and cold of winter. Each time I remember that April is now less than thirty days away, I feel surprise hit me afresh, all over again.

April. That word dances off the tongue with all the joy of flowers and sunshine and tiny bunnies and colourful eggs. It brings a smile to my face that washes right through my body with a sense of “Hello, old friend. It’s been a long time.”

April. So near and yet so far.

Because before we arrive there we have March to get through. World Book Day, International Women’s Day, UK Mother’s Day. All days that, at least once or twice in my memory bank, left their imprint as cold and hostile. Days that can bring joy but can equally feel utterly painful to get through. Because godammit it’s still winter.

This morning I woke up and it was cold. No surprise there.

I hugged my now-lukewarm hot water bottle I had brought to bed with me when I turned in last night, hoping for a little more comfort than it actually gave. No matter. The kettle can go on again and the hot water bottle cycle can resume.

Over and over and over again. How many hot water bottles are heated and then cool in one winter? Who holds the record for the highest number? Probably someone in Canada or Alaska at a guess, rather than here in the UK where, in comparison, we have no business complaining about cold or winter’s length.

Except when March reminds us that winter has already been around for long enough and still it lingers on.

When we remember that, though we have already been biding our time since Christmas while we wait for spring to emerge, we have to continue doing so for another month…or thereabouts.

Perhaps a bit longer, if April dawns cold. Or perhaps — though I go here tentatively, wary of planting any seeds of hope — a little less. For sometimes, the sun appears in all her glory during this otherwise bleak month of March, surprising and delighting us along with our fellow mortal beings — the woodpeckers and the cuckoos, the swifts and the chiff chaffs.

March.

The sound of it is so stiff and wooden. As if we are toy soldiers simply marching along to get through this final bout of winter.

Embedded in it is a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the toy soldiers’ march is leading us to triumph and defeat of all that we are battling. But it doesn’t remove the journey we still have to get there.

And, just as the soldiers must march in formation, not a foot out of line, we can find ourselves also marching along at a distance from all others around us. Marching along, together yet alone in our plight to reach there.

In March I tell myself that it’s time to get into the garden and get to work. But doing it is another thing.

The grass will need cutting. The compost will be ready to lay on the beds. Spring flowers can be planted and summer seeds can be sown.

But doing it requires more than March is offering right now. Cold and grey doesn’t lend itself to gardening. Not today. Not quite yet.

Because, really, it’s still winter and no amount of digging will change that.

The flowers don’t care yet. The earth remains too cold to fill dormant seeds and roots with energy.

Just as the air surrounding me as I wake up each cold morning is a stark reminder that I must emerge slowly from my warm bed, so too does the garden whisper to me, “There’s no hurry. Not yet.”

March is such a tease. It plays with our expectations and tortures us with its gripping hands of ice. We think we’re almost out of the wintry woods but then it blankets us with an unrelenting cold, throws hail at us and covers our windows with ice before laughing at us with a clear blue sky and a touch-of-true-warmth kind of sun.

It teaches me not to hope too hard too early but to dip a toe into the world beyond my winter hideout, while being prepared to retract it again.

This year, like other years, it leapt into our calendars and announced its arrival with its usual menacing laugh. But finally I am learning.

Although it’s now March and spring is just around the corner, I will continue to bide my time. Just for the moment.

Just until the sun comes to tell me otherwise.

Thanks for stopping by to read my essay.

I love a bit of inspiration, and Daniel Ng provided a wonderful piece of that in the following essay. As someone who has always loved the water, it’s hard to learn of people fearful of it. Which is why his breakthrough was so delightful to read about.