Ah, spring. Every year it returns, no matter how dismal and dreary the winter, no matter how chilly, wet, or long. With every spring, its relentless, unstoppable arrival seems a bit more miraculous and unlikely. The power of it. The lush, ferocious greening, all the exultant birds, creatures, and people emerging, returning from wherever they’ve spent the dark months.
Some of us haven’t gone far. We’ve stayed right here, in our homes, under cover, wrapped in layers of protection from the cold and rain. Some are more intrepid. I know those who swim in the frigid sea year-round. While I admire the commitment, I can’t even imagine.
Soon enough, the sea will soften and warm, and I will float in its briny embrace. I will surrender myself to sunshine, sand, and sea, bake in the hot, hot heat of summer. Summer is coming. But I was speaking of spring.
In a place like Hornby, we experience a stark contrast between our winter lives and our summer lives. Springtime is a blessed buffer, softening the blow of summer, which would otherwise arrive like a sledgehammer with its crowds and frenzy. Spring opens us sweetly and slowly. New things happen, with space before and after to breathe.
It’s a smaller world here in winter. I visit, I play cards with family and friends, I write, I go to classes through New Horizons, I do my radio show, I have a dance group, a songwriter circle, a writer’s group. I keep busy. I love winter here.
In summer, I am differently busy. Busy bigger… with the market, at the beach, out and about, in the garden, at art events, socializing and performing. You name it, I will do it. I am happy to be busy. Since I spent the last half of summer last year in a cave (my room), in pain and on drugs, this summer I am more than ready to come alive again.
But first: spring.
Soon, this coming week, it will be Blues Week. Not everyone participates, but I do. I’m signed up for my fifth straight year as a student. I love it. The point is to learn, yes, and I do learn so much. But also, I love the connection, the community, the food, and especially the music. The fabulous concerts each evening serve as the high point of the season, warming me up for summer.
After Blues Week comes May Long Weekend, right in the middle of the month. This marks the official beginning of shoulder season, when the island starts the turnover to summer life. Blues Week is busy, but it’s a concentrated week that passes, and then we relax for a bit. Then comes the Long Weekend, and the shops and the Farmer’s Market open.
Farmer’s Marketeers who offer wares and services get a full dose of busy on May Long, then we have gently increasing busy-ness through the second half of May and June. By the time Canada Day weekend arrives, we’re more or less ready for it.
I love the cycle of the seasons here. This year, though, feels so different. Changes are happening, obvious, huge ones. The campground, for one. It’s hard to believe it will open to the public in its denuded state, but it will. I wonder who will want to stay there. Will past campers withstand the shock of the devastating, obliterating changes? Many won’t, I imagine.
Lots of others have been waiting their chance. They won’t mind. They’ll bring RVs with their indoor furniture and TVs and WiFi, and they’ll happily park on the big, bare gravel pads in the baking sun. AC will take care of the heat. No worries.
I worry. I worry for the displaced families who loved camping in the green glades under venerable old trees, now replaced by fencing everywhere, gravel pads laid in a grid. It horrifies me.
Oh well. I’ve said this all before. It’s done. Why complain? Suck it up (insert sarcasm here). And perhaps in a few years the campground will be beautiful. It’s hard to imagine. Those fences. Those giant gravel pads. But still. New plantings will grow to soften and obscure the ugly. Nature is excellent at growing, thankfully.
Summer will be different this year. The construction of the new Co-op, the issue of parking, congestion—all of that will be tiresome. We can deal with it. It’s just transition.
Other changes aren’t so transitory. We baby boomers are aging. I’m a late boomer. My parents were children when the war ended. Still, I qualify. I am much more aware of my limits.
Once, I didn’t know I had limits. I had them, certainly, but I ignored them. Now, my body doesn’t forgive the way it once did. “No,” body says. “Don’t eat that. Don’t do that. Go home now.” And if I eat that, or do that, or stay out too late, body makes me sorry. I learn because I have to.
I’m changing. My body is stiffening in some places, loosening in others. I’m still strong, and I’ve not lost much muscle mass, if any. I’m flexible. I can dance. I’m grateful for my strong, vital body. But I’m slower. I tire more easily. I take more care with my time and energy. I have to.
I will adapt. Time passes, life happens. Even the campground will be beautiful eventually, if not in the same way. Some things don’t come back. Giant trees don’t. Old buildings become memories. We will have a new Co-op, and I think and hope it will be better. But the old one holds so many years’ worth of memories. All those produce department heart-to-hearts, the dramas, the colourful characters who have since passed on.
With all that, no matter what, spring keeps coming back. That is a constant. Life rebounds every year with vigor and verve. Hallelujah. Viva spring.
That’s what I think. What do you think? Email me at phoenixonhornby@gmail.com
