Apparently, Pennsylvania has decided that this year, spring looks like this:

People are pretty riled up about it 'round these parts, but I'm fine with it. To me, spring means walking barefoot on the cold, mossy concrete in Southern California, and even though the day may look like any other because California doesn't believe in seasons, there is a very specific quickening of the blood and a yielding softness to the air. So anything else is just like, what? Flowers? Mud? Mmkay. Sure. Whatever you say.

Although it's been snowing for two days straight, spring's arrival has aligned with my own renewed optimism: I'm proud of the work I've done over the past year; I'll be finished with another draft of my book by April and ready to send it into the world. My nephew will be born any day now, the first boy of his generation in the family (and his five aunts have no idea what to do with him. Do boys like hedgehogs? Should I get him a hedgehog?). And, after a year of particularly bad anxiety and weird health stuff, I am finally starting to see the way to claw out of this terrible hole I've been living in. You know. Like a woodchuck coming out of hibernation to stretch its little woodchuck limbs and do its little woodchuck things. 

Spring has been persistent this year. We've had countless thaws and frosts, chasing one after the other like squirrels playing tag. Last week, snowdrops peeked shyly out of shady corners of the yard, and the Stars of Bethlehem stood up tall and bold, ready to burst forth in flower. The snow has them all covered up now, but they'll be back soon enough. And that's how I feel this year: Storms will come, but they won't last. I feel good. Resilient. Ready.

So that's why today I put on makeup and shaved my legs for the first time this year. I pulled on a sundress and snow boots with no tights. Then I stood outside in snow up to my knees to welcome in the spring. For about six seconds. Screaming all the while.