I can remember just a few months back, sitting under a tree, lamenting the change of season. Spring was shifting into summer and, though I love summer, I could already feel a longing for the early bloom of springtime.
This was the first year, maybe ever, I felt present every day, open to the new life unfolding. I allowed myself to have my breath taken away at each turned corner, open to the surprise of a burst of yellow from the forsythia that always seem to appear first, then to the patches of pink tulips, drooping from the weight of their too-heavy heads. I loved crossing the street and being charmed by the powerful scent of hyacinths and the voluptuous lushness of cherry blossoms. I let it amaze and astonish me.
And then I began to mourn it, even before it was over.