Springtime is time to get up and go.
Every winter I go into deep hibernation, and it feels like the world stands still. Intellectually, I know that spring always comes again, but it has no reality for me. It feels like it will be winter forever. I remain in that timeless mindset week after week until at some point, springs starts to flicker, to show its face again here and there. Then the signs become more frequent. Spring gradually gains momentum and at some point, it becomes undeniable that spring has beaten back the winter and is triumphant. Spring is here!
Every spring comes back with a roaring fanfare like the very first spring. The world is swept back to Eden. Spring is the beginning of the world all over again, and it’s the greatest show on earth. It’s far better than any movie or video. It’s an ongoing, multi-dimensional, surround sound, full color spectacle, that you not only see and hear, but you feel it, you experience it with your full being. With every breath, you take it in, you participate in it, and you merge with it.
For many animals, spring is migratory season, and for many people as well; I include myself in that subspecies. For me, spring is not truly realized until my first trip. Only then do I finally break the spell of cabin fever that has hung over me through the winter.
If I wait too long, while the spring gathers momentum, I experience a kind of tension and unease that keeps tightening until I finally make a break, pick up my bootstraps and change my environment. It feels like a sickness, but it’s just the urge to travel, welling up inside, a symptom of too much time confined. That’s what brought me to Vermont today, one of my favorite places to experience spring.
In Vermont, it’s a wide swing from the deep winter when the days are only eight hours long, to the peak of summer when days are more than 15 hours long. When spring comes back over that great expanse, it comes fast and strong, like a massive burst. It’s magical and splendorous, the display of nature as the world wakes from hibernation and comes roaring into summer.
I’m standing over the rushing water of a tiny mountain stream called Schoolhouse Brook. It runs down the mountainside and flows right next to the house where I am staying. The water cascades down stairsteps of boulders. As it splashes over each drop-off, it stirs up gurgling pools of bubbles that create an exquisite orchestration of soothing, rhythmic sound. Just to hear it…
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