I confess that as the days grow longer (seventeen hours and 39 minutes today) and warmer, I am captured by green. I spend hours tromping around outside looking at all the new growth, turning over garden beds, transplanting strawberries, putting flowers into pots, sniffing the peppery marigolds and sweet lavender. My garden gloves and I are seldom separated (even if I forget to actually put them on my hands).
What suffers? My reading and writing time erodes a bit around the edges of my spring fever. Oh, and housework, not that I really care about that so much. I tell myself that the rain will come and soon enough the seasons will change. And in all honesty, I think that smell of the soil, the sheer physical grunt work of preparing the earth to accept seed, the close attention to nettle and fiddle-head, these must enrich my writing. Or at least feed my heart, which I confess is filled to spilling with gratitude that I live amongst such wonder.
I confess that wonder never gets old.