As I write this, a soft, spring breeze flutters through my open window. I am drinking riesling so cold it sweats against my glass, a much needed departure from the bold reds of winter. On the deck, the sound of a bamboo chime rustles in a restless, hollow tune. I listen to the birds tweet, the frogs croaks near the pond, and of this moment, I know a simple, singular thought: there is nothing but right now.
Except the blooms.
Beyond my storied windows, the rains have greened the grass. Buds swell from bushes, plump and heavy and hopeful. After a long and miserable winter, tiny red shoots of peonies stretch toward the sun. Down in the garden, irises cluster while hyacinths preen, the first to put on a show. A week or two from now, the flowering trees holding court in my yard will burst into pink and frosty blooms and I will sit here with a stupid grin on my face, wondering, was spring always this great?
I watch my boston, Josie, roll around in the lawn and I can’t help but think: my dog knows this answer better than I do.