Spring Happens

*I feel the need to apologize for this post. It has little to nothing to do with Eleanor and everything to do with me. It's what Kris and I like to call "Chatty Chatty Self-Self" talk.

The weather finally climbed into double digits today. Spring is all around and it's nothing short of magic. We are spoiled in Victoria. Spring is a blessing here. It starts in February and continues clear into June.

Magnolia trees are my favourite. In Toronto, spring drags its heels. The weather gets warmer, but rather than the scent of hyacinth and heather filling the air, it just smells of garbage defrosting. The snow melts and the world is brown, brown, brown. The trees bloom late, so the first colour that emerges is from the magnolia tree. The tree itself is understated; it's knobbly and naked without flowers or leaves. It could be any tree. But then the delicate blooms appear in soft white or electric pink and the tree comes to life! The petals are large, but they seem so fragile against the still-chilly spring air. They are resilient and defiant of winter even without their leaves and usher in the new season with their pretty flowers.

And it happens every year. Spring always comes.

I had an English teacher in middle school who loved saying that. To those who knew this teacher, you know exactly who am I talking about and you know exactly where this going. To those of you who don't, I had a very interesting English teacher in middle school. He had a lot of crazy ideas for teaching, which made him insanely popular with the students, but not so much with the staff. He resigned halfway through the school year over creative differences with the administration. It broke my juvenile heart and I led a (short-lived) student rebellion in the parking lot, complete with songs and my tie around my head. I think it lasted 15 minutes into the next period, and I was back to my mild-mannered self, but a defiant anger had been unleashed, and she was always sitting right under the surface (she still is!).

That summer, news spread that this teacher who we had cherished and idolized and had taught us so much about life and love and standing up for what you believe in and waiting for spring to come, well, he commit suicide. I remember returning to school that fall and hearing the principal talk about this man's trouble and how drugs and alcohol were involved. I folded my arms across my pre-teen chest and turned my nose up to their thoughts. I looked mad, but I wasn't. I think I had made peace with my feelings long before that assembly. As much as I thought I loved him, I didn't. My respect for him had been dwindling for a long time, and suicide was not cool with me. It didn't sit right.

I'm not sure why I bring this up, my pseudo Dead Poets Society. I suppose because it happened. Shit happens in this life. My shit (save my daughter's life threatening cancer) is pretty insignificant. Days turn to weeks turn to months turn to years. Things change, but not really. I guess that's why spring seems more beautiful this year. Shit happened this year. I needed spring to come. I needed pretty flowers and ducklings and warm spring sunshine. I'm really glad that my landlord has a gardener come in to brighten the small yard out my window. It helps. Small things help.