Spring Is Alive After All

Even when you’re not paying attention...

“It’s the first day of spring,” my dentist mumbles from behind his mask while scraping plaque from my molar.

It’s the Spring Equinox, the moment nature comes to life, the season of new beginnings and fresh energy, when we’re asked to tap into our courage and go for it.

And I completely forgot about it.

Did I just miss my window to set intentions for the astrological year? Did I commit some cosmic faux pas, like skipping red underwear on New Year’s and dooming myself to a year of bad sex?

Instead, I spent the morning complaining about a missing link in a work email, getting frustrated over more gaslighting, and grumbling about how sweaty I was on my walk to the dentist—hardly the way to show the universe my courageous intentions.

I thought I lost spring when I moved to San Francisco, where the season hides under a thick layer of fog.

No crisp air reddening my cheeks on the way to school, no stunning mimosa bushes creating corridors of yellow, pillowy flowers, no shy warm sun to greet me in the morning.

Not even spring clothes—San Francisco is a puffer jacket kind of place, no matter the season.

“You’re lucky,” people used to tell me. “In San Francisco, it’s spring all year round.” Maybe in terms of temperature. But it never felt like spring, not the kind I grew up with.

The wind was cold and unforgiving, sweeping you between skyscrapers. There was no scent of flowers, no blooming bushes among the tech buildings and evergreen plants.

An evergreen, foggy, low-temperature summer.

Missing spring became just another feeling I got used to, another step in the never-ending journey of adapting to a foreign country I had chosen.

And that was it, the new norm, for nine years, until I moved to North Berkeley, just 30 minutes from San Francisco, to a neighbourhood of old homes and untamed gardens.

We moved in October, just as fall settled in. Winter rains made our little backyard lush and green. March arrived quickly as we adjusted to our new home, our new neighborhood, and the rhythm of grocery shopping.

One day, walking down the street toward the nearest Trader Joe’s, a fragrant smell slammed into me with the force of a hurricane, stopping me in my tracks.

I had to turn. I had to see where it was coming from.

And there it was—a giant blooming vine, white and pink flowers staring back at me.

A pink jasmine, reminding me that spring was alive after all.

I found her. Or maybe she found me.

I turned off my headphones, removed my sunglasses, and everything became brighter.

Every corner of untamed nature had bloomed: California poppies, magnolias, violets, cherry and apple trees, cacti, and so many native plants I’d never seen before.

Bees feasted on bushes of wild rosemary and lilacs. All new. All alive. All reminding me that everything is a cycle, and everything finds its way back to where it’s supposed to be. I am where I’m supposed to be.

My thoughts are abruptly shaken by a sharp pain that pulls me back to the grey chair, the bright light of the dentist’s headlamp, the buzzing noise of the machinery in my mouth.

“It’s the gum recession spot; we’re almost done,” he says.

A gentle tear runs down my cheek, partly from the pain that reminds me I should be flossing every night, but mostly because I know that while I may not have set my cosmic intentions during the equinox, like a late-blooming flower, I’ll take my time—because one way or another, spring is going to find me.

Freshly blossomed,

Simona