Waiting for the spell to break

On spring and beginnings

There’s something I’ve noticed about the way things begin—at least, for me. The new vista opens up ahead, bright and shiny and new, but just before I can step into it, the whole scene freezes. It’s as though someone has pressed “pause” on the TV. And I have to do that thing I really hate to do: wait out the pause.

Life is rich with beginnings just now. It’s early spring here in the northern hemisphere, and desperation for winter to be over is a constant drone note in our household. Last night on a call with family, Marty almost shouted, “I’m done. I NEED spring.” The daffodils are out but the snow flurries continue. We’re in the pause.

And of course, winter isn’t just winter for us all right now. Winter is also the pandemic, an endless dark, cold season like the winters in the Game of Thrones universe, which can last a decade or more. And because the big hairy finger of covid pressed pause on our collective Netflix special two years ago, the waiting really does seem interminable.

Right now my inventure, in so many parts of life, is in the pause that comes before the beginning. The moment between the exhale and the next inhale. Like a fairytale spell waiting to be broken. Sleeping beauty, except the fair slumbering maiden is our whole damn lives.

our pauses

Marty has been trying to fight her way into her new book, wrestling the keyboard, shouting and pounding—all the things that I now know precede the flow of the writing for her. She’s not there yet. But she will be soon.

Lila is poised to explode with language. She so badly wants to express herself that it’s alternately painful and hilarious to watch. She’s definitely locked in the pause. When we talk to my mom on FaceTime every night, Lila attempts to make conversation. With a look of great intensity on her face, she nods and speaks nonsense syllables, watching our faces to see if it’s working yet.

Not yet, kiddo. But soon.

Meanwhile, Karen is considering playing some golf again when the weather improves. I’m waiting for my mom’s arrival from Australia. Adam is eagerly awaiting his 34th birthday in May.

Yesterday, in the spirit of spring, I dragged a box of pre-maternity clothes down from the attic to see if any of them fit me. There was a strangeness to the process. It was almost absurd to try dressing myself again in clothing that had been worn by such an innocent body. But I’m a pragmatist, so I got past that and tried them on for size. Not yet. But soon.