The air has changed; when my colleague opens the window in our shared office, it smells of budding plants and feels like an echo of sunshine. It can’t come soon enough. We’ve reached the part of winter when the tiny house starts feeling too tiny, when it feels like we are constantly bumping into each other and in each other’s way, when we long to expand our living space out into the backyard as we do the minute the sun returns its setting to spring.
I am comforted by the fact that the last two Aprils have had weather like summer. Is it April yet? Is it spring? Is it summer? Can I forget about the cold and the icy rain and the grey sky and the disappointment of a winter without snow? Will I remember how to turn off the computer and spend a day outside? Of course. Muscle memory, activated by warm light. No more wood to chop (though I have always enjoyed that part of winter), so more fires to light (a good wood stove takes the sting out of that task as well).