M

y series of thoughts on sea-
sons: If summer is a glass of 
cold lemonade, and winter’s a 

crossword at candle-light, then fall is a 
call from a very old friend, and spring is 
a coffee at sunrise.

Summer is for enjoyment, fall is for 

ambition and winter is for persever-
ance. Spring is for rebirth. I’ve always 
felt that the first signs of spring marked 
the new year. I don’t care about what the 
calendars in my life say — New Year’s on 
the first of January, Rosh Hashanah on 
the first of Tishrei. Sure, they’re nice 
celebrations, but I’ve never found them 
to capture the air of change that reintro-
duces itself each spring.

Spring is refreshing. It cleans the 

year’s slate. It breathes in crisp air and 
excitement. In spring, we reemerge 
from the spaces we’ve holed up in for 
months, taking refuge from the winter 
chill. The warmth thaws our sidewalks 
and porches and parks, revealing a sea-
son of leisure and camaraderie. It’s like 
stepping out of the shade into a patch of 
sunlight — suddenly, the world seems 
just a bit brighter.

Spring is inherently hopeful. Seasonal 

depression wanes as snow banks recede. 
Dewy grass marks each morning with 
new opportunities for rejuvenation and 
growth. You can hear birds chirping in 
the trees, inviting the rest of us to join 
them in their celebration.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve taken 

to walking around campus. I’ve found 
that I’m not the only one. On a warm-
er day, students are out in their yards, 
spending time with their roommates. 
Plus, the downtown area is almost back 
to its former glory: packed sidewalks, 
busy storefronts and cheery residents. 
It’s amazing that all it takes to repop-
ulate the streets of Ann Arbor is a day 
where the thermometer breaks 50 de-
grees.

One spring is stolen, the next is re-

claimed. The contents may differ, but 
the framework remains. A cycle contin-

ues beyond our control, but our goal is 
to keep things from staying the same.

One unique aspect of this spring in 

particular is that it’s long overdue. It 
follows a year of suffering — over half 
a million U.S. COVID-19 fatalities and 
counting. One year ago, our spring was 
ripped from the palm of our hands. 
Without much information about the 
unfamiliar threat spreading globally, 
all we could do was nervously wait for 
further guidance. And we were forced 
to sacrifice the hallmark of spring: a 
peaceful return outdoors.

Anniversaries affect us biologically, 

even if we don’t realize it at the mo-
ment. Thinking back to this time last 
year, my memories are all tinged with 
fear. I’m naturally a pretty nervous per-
son, but even my most easy-going peers 
had little to say in the vein of comfort. 
That kind of societal trauma is bound to 
have lasting effects.

Still, the warm weather offered a 

slight padding to the weight of the on-
coming catastrophe. Our social circles 
were constricted, but I was one of the 
fortunate few who still had access to 
the various natural comforts of subur-
ban living and spend time outdoors by 
myself or with friends. Even a short stay 
in nature has been clinically shown to 
improve mental health. For at least the 
first portion of the pandemic, many 
were able to use our environment to our 
advantage.

Once winter hit, though, our environ-

ment turned on us. Forced indoors by the 
harsh Michigan winter, the pandemic felt 
even more insurmountable. Just a month 
ago, the country faced one of the worst 
winter storms in recent history. And 
for those experiencing homelessness 
to whom winter already represented a 
threat to health and safety, the social dis-
tancing complications of the pandemic 
were an added stress on the underfund-
ed shelter system. But amidst mounting 
cynicism that the winter would ever sub-
side, the spring returned once again.

The seasons ebb and flow with no re-

gard for societal happenings. Sometimes 
that means we face devastating disas-
ters, but other times it means that we’re 
met with a much-needed sunny day. The 
weather is just a backdrop for our lives, 
and it’s our responsibility to do what we 
can. This spring, we’re taking the nec-
essary precautions to remain safe while 
making up for lost time.

Jovial children stumble through the 

playground to the field. They greet a 
patch of dandelions, intentions still con-
cealed. Eventually, their daily pilgrim-
age presents a prize. The flowers, once 
a promise, now float wishes through the 
skies.

Despite all my talk of using spring to 

forge a new and different path for the fu-
ture, I often revel in the nostalgia of cer-
tain springtime traditions. Every time I 
step in a fresh patch of mud, I’m trans-
ported back to elementary recess in ear-
ly March. As soon as the bell would ring, 
my friends and I sprinted past the four 
square courts and monkey bars, back to 
the corner of the field where a patch of 
dandelions grew each year.

I thought they were beautiful, a 

bright yellow confirmation that spring 
had sprung. My friends and I picked 
the petals off one-by-one, musing about 
whatever it is that occupies elementa-
ry-age kids’ dreams. We crafted flower 
crowns — before they were trendy — 
and donned our new regalities until the 
teacher inevitably told us to throw them 
out.

But the greatest gift of the dandelions 

came when they shed their yellow pet-
als for a puffy exterior, filled with what 
my friends and I assumed must be magi-
cal properties. We would rush out to the 
patch and spend the hour blowing the 
dandelion seeds into the wind. They say 
that if you could get all the seeds in a 
single breath, you’d earn a wish.

I didn’t know until years later that all 

we were really doing was planting new 
dandelion seeds for the coming season. 

I felt bad when I first found out, because 
this is also when I learned that most 
people (and by that I mean all botanists 
and gardeners) considered dandelions 
a weed. But I still don’t believe it. To 
me, dandelions are never a nuisance. 
They represent a perpetual promise of 
past, present and future springtimes all 
bound together by fleeting wishes from 
a group of little girls.
S

pring enters slowly, taking her 
time. She whispers, then mum-
bles, then belts sublime. She’s got 

my trust and earned my praise. So thank 
you, spring, forever and always.

All of this is to say I absolutely love 

the spring. And I love this spring in par-
ticular. It’s been a real saving grace as 
we hopefully near the end of an endless 
year. In the sun, I feel like a kid again, 
savoring the peace and joy that a simple 
jaunt in nature can provide.

Spring can’t solve all the world’s 

problems, especially with the laundry 
list we’ve accrued since this time last 
year. It can, however, release some of 
the tension that’s built after months of 
insular anticipation. That is spring’s 
purpose, and its gift.

I sometimes wish I didn’t live in 

Michigan, particularly in the winter. 
But without that frame of reference (or, 
logistically, that climate), I couldn’t 
truly appreciate the wonders of spring-
time. I use this season as a time of re-
flection, so hypothetically, I wouldn’t 
be who I am today without the guid-
ance of spring.

This is my love letter to springtime. 

I thank you for your hospitality, your 
enlightenment and your dandelions. 
Thank you for the year’s first late-night 
bonfires; for Daylight Saving Time and 
the extra hour of life it offers; for gazpa-
cho and for iced tea; for my birthday, my 
graduations, both past and future, and 
all the amazing experiences I can’t yet 
name.

I love you, spring. I hope you come to 

love me all the same.

statement

ILLUSTRATION BY KATHERINE LEE

Wednesday, March 24, 2021 — 13

BY MELANIE TAYLOR, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT

A love 
letter to the 
burgeoning 
spring

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com