Smells Like Dirt

Today, the air smells like dirt. Sounds icky, but it’s such a welcome scent. Winter doesn’t smell like dirt; winter just smells . . . cold. But to smell like dirt? Now that’s something.

To smell like dirt is to announce spring’s arrival. It’s March in Illinois; we may not be done with cold days and nights, but there are signs of life. My yard-sheltered wildflowers are blooming. Birds sing me awake some mornings and tomorrow’s sunset will come an hour later. I took a ride with my camera today, my elm tree left its spring litter on my car, and flowering trees have fuzzy little buds. Yes, the air smells like dirt.

Spring is the most wonderful cliché I know. The world is coming back to life and is bringing the humans along for the ride.

People are crawling out from under a Covid-blanketed winter; many of us are fully vaccinated. We’re still masked, but gradually less nervous than we’ve been. We’re careful, but we are coming back into the world, giddy at the sight of the lower half of friends’ faces when we meet for lunch, chancing a hug now and then. School still operates under restrictions, but things are changing; the students can reasonably look forward to spring sports (and almost everything is a spring sport this year), homecoming and the associated festivities, and other activities. Nothing is normal, but we are moving forward.

We are moving forward; I’m not sure I am moving forward.

I love spring and her accoutrement, except maybe allergies. I love watching the world turn green, feeling the air and ground and water grow warmer. Even now, in mid-March, there are afternoons I lift my face to the sky as I walk to my car after work, hoping the sun will heal what’s broken.

Those firsts of each spring–the first barefoot walk across the grassy lawn, the first day I notice my freckles are making a statement, the first night I fall asleep drunk on fresh air, the first mushroom–those are some of the best days each year. This year, though, the thought of those days makes me nervous. I’m so ready for spring. I hope she works her magic. We have a pretty great track record, spring and I, but this is my first spring After. Is spring strong enough to help me? Can spring at least drape her arm across my shoulder and walk with me, let me walk with her? Can she help me begin the climb out of this dark hole?

I want so badly to move forward, to feel better and be better–I do. And I’m trying. I push myself every day, but some days (or weeks) push back. Certain days–the 24th of every month, holidays, the morning after a bad dream or no sleep–I expect the push. Then there are the ambush days. Grief’s ambush game is strong. On those ambush days, any scab that had formed over my wounds comes off and the wounds are newly raw. Those are ugly days. For all my efforts to move forward, for all my good intentions and hard work, those days kick my butt. I know it’s normal to have bad days, but those days defeat me.

I’ve looked toward spring on the horizon since the holidays, hoping there was some symbolic connection to be had–maybe I’d rejuvenate along with all things green and growing. All things living. I truly hope it works that way. I want to squeal with delight when I find my first tiny mushroom, to laugh with abandon as I ride the four-wheeler a little faster than I should, and even relish the spring sneezes that let me know Mother Nature is at work. That’s been my hope. It still is.

Tonya of After has learned not to get her hopes up. It’s hard to be a heartbroken optimist.

Maybe I’ll be more like Spring Lake. Two weeks ago, on one of the glorious teaser days of late winter, the lake was covered by ice and only barely melting around the edges. Today, the lake is water. Cold water, but water. Progress. I love green trees, but it’s not time. I will have to wait for the green. Today, I studied the structure and obvious strength of the bare trees. There are massive, mighty oaks keeping watch over the lake, trunks thick and gnarled, limbs and branches flexing for the saplings. In a month, things will leaf out; the skeletons of the trees will be hidden by the beauty of leaves, those obvious signs of life. We will comment on the lushness of the trees, forgetting the hidden strength–those thick trunks and flexing limbs–that make it possible for the trees to bear leaves and cast shade. The trees will still be mighty, but our focus will shift.

Right now, I’m that bare tree, species undetermined. Definitely bare, though. Definitely gnarled and knotted, bark wounded, branches snapped. At first glance, there are few signs of life, but surely I’m heading toward spring. I don’t know what to expect or when to expect it. Expectations are not my friends right now. I just hold on to the hope and maybe even knowledge that time is having some effect, that spring is gently nudging me along, and eventually leaves will unfurl to clothe the skeleton of grief.

For now, the air smells like dirt. That’s a good sign.