It seemed like Spring for a moment

At the outset it looked like Winter, cold and gray. The air had no warmth, the sun had no power to enliven the skin, and the colors were muted. I’d worn the wrong clothes.

I picked up S and we drove up the coast along famously beautiful Highway One, still the most gorgeous stretch of asphalt I’ve ever driven, lined with wildflowers and good memories, though untouchable on the other side of the glass. We got to the gate of Big Basin State Park and stepped out into goosebumps and arms held tightly to our sides.

 

But things have a way of surprising you. Around a curve, over a hill, and I found premonitions and recollections of Springtime waiting in calm air that had nice things to say. The sun recognized our character, and gave us love and calm comfort, no need for protective jackets or muffling scarves. The yellows of leaves found us very amusing, and evergreens had seen it all before and loved us even more for it.

There is a beautiful rhythm in working muscles, harmony, and in legs carrying you towards the height you want to reach. We reached a point that was wonderfully lifted, vista for miles, not the peak, but that’s okay, there is time for that further down the calendar.

We sat on warm soil and she introduced me to persimmons, laughing when it was the wrong kind. “Ug, I’m sorry, I got the ones you use for baking, not eating raw. It feels like there’s hair growing on your tongue.” This I had to feel. She was right. We adapted, had apples instead.

The return was a fey sort of stroll, glens gone to slanted sunlight and deer watching us with wet acorn eyes. Even the poison oak was wearing its prettiest robes.

Back at the verge, the winter gloom had been chased offshore, and slid south in a purple wall with other places to go, held away by something unknowable. The brewery food was delicious, homemade meatloaf sliders with mashed potatoes on buttermilk biscuits for me, a thick veggie soup of mysterious components and savory succulence for S.

Initial portents of Winter chill had disappeared in the rising of somehow Spring and blooming, a year perhaps less destined for darkness than I’d thought, but within a few days I was back in my icey room for one, fingertips numbed, spiderplant persisting but without blooms. I guess it’s Winter after all.