I know I wrote a post last year about how Autumn was my absolute, no questions asked, favourite month.
But I think I lied.
I think Spring is my favourite month.
At least it is today. I don't love crunchy leaves and conkers any less, but I am super loving today.
The sun is shining, the air is fresh and dry, the sky is a brilliant, uninterrupted cobalt blue, the birds are tweeting and the daffodils are swaying in the breeze.
There are little green leaves shooting up promisingly in the garden. I can hear the sounds of people working outside without fear of being snowed on for once. And I have flung open all the windows to let it all in.
Now, I know it's not officially spring yet. In fact we've got another month to go before we get to that point. But I have officially declared it spring in our house..even the pale yellow Cath Kidston table cloth is out in place of the winter option so it must be true.
So autumn is my favourite month, but turns out spring is my even favouritest.
But then again, is it? Or will I get just as excited when I spot summer on the horizon? Is it just that I love all the seasons, but it's actually the bit in between, as one merges into the other that I love the best?
Thinking about it, what I actually love is watching and noticing as the seasons change. Looking out for and then delighting in those tell tale signs that change is afoot. It's the constant flux and renewal, the cycle of the seasons passing. I don't think it would be as fun or as special if one day we woke up and full blown spring was here in all it's technicolour glory. I think it's the anticipation as it steadily approaches bit by bit.
Or, I suppose, it's about awareness. About being mindful and savouring. And appreciating, being thankful (that it might actually stop being freezing and snowing every 5 seconds sometime soon...when it is summer and I'm fed up of being too hot I shall be wishing autumn would hurry up and arrive again).
I think it's about the promise of what's to come, and that what's just been is passing.
And I think it must be said that this particular promise is probably more true of spring than of any other season. New year always feels a bit like it's in the wrong place for me, like I'm never quite ready for it...maybe I'm Chinese really!?
The closing line of the Larkin poem, 'Trees', about trees as they come into bud in spring, from where I have taken the title of this post, goes like this:
"Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh."
And for me, that's quite a big relief. Begin afresh, afresh, afresh is precisely what's in order.
Spring, whatever you have in store for me; bring it on.