April and early May in New England this year were many things—among them strangely cold. Many days, I luxuriated in the brisk chill of a bright, clear day that required a cozy scarf along with my sunglasses. Other days, I lamented the redundancy of my still-seasonal winter sweaters.
The garden didn’t mind waiting, as perennials and bulbs peeked shyly and slowly toward the sunlight, and trees blossomed despite temperatures that rarely crossed 50 degrees. I felt grateful to have a fire table to light during a chilly outdoor Mother’s Day brunch. I kept the windows cracked to let in the fresh morning air, but admit to putting the heat on several May evenings.
And then—suddenly and yet somehow right on time, a pre-summer burst of warmth rushed in and brought a swing up to 80 degrees as May continued its journey toward June’s solstice.
It reminded me of the feeling of walking into a party where music is playing. Outside the door, I’d recognize the tune, and get excited for the promise of fun and celebration that awaited inside. Stepping into the room was a rush of sensation—the thrumming beat, the technicolor joy on friends’ faces, the feeling that it was time to start dancing.
The mid-May, 30-degree temperature jump was similarly freeing, turning up the volume on my feelings of summer hope and anticipation. It made me want to dig and plant and sow and drink in all the promise and possibility of warmth that, I pray, lays ahead.
My weather app tells me sandal weather isn’t here to stay. But then again, nothing is—not the flowers on the trees, not the sweater, not the fire table. To use an oft-quoted Bible verse, to everything there is a season. The beauty of a visit to the season that lies ahead leaves me ready to be present in the season that’s still here. There’s music playing somewhere, and soon enough, we will find the right time to open the door.
