I have played more rounds of hide and seek with my family in the past week than I have in the past eight months. There's something about the early spring thaw that brings out the little kid in all of us, and for that I am glad.
We can't get enough of walking to the creek, in particular. Putting down our to-do lists or projects or studies, and setting off to see what we can see. Are the beaver dams are holding? Is the dry gully running? Has the last of the ice finally let go?
Yesterday we heard the return of the sandhill cranes and also the first of the red-winged blackbirds. This is, perhaps, the earliest I remember hearing them in all of my life. It made for a bittersweet mix of delight and worry at the sound of their delightful calls.
As I write this, Sage just woke, made tea, and joined us by the fire. His first question was, "Can we walk to the creek after breakfast?"
Such is the nature of spring.
He's pouring over some wild edibles books at the moment, researching cattails and chicory and trying to find something we might harvest, though there's still ice in the valley. Spring fever of the very best sort.
A few nights ago, before bedtime – when we normally curl up by the fire with books and yarn and colored pencils – the kids begged us to walk to the creek. It was late and we were tired, but the moon was calling, and the owls and coyotes had much to discuss, and childhood was slipping through our hands.
And so we said yes.
Yes to a moonlit walk through the last of the snow; yes to five rounds of hide and seek on the frozen ground.
When we returned to the house, my face hurt from lying on the ice under the bailer, awaiting being found; my belly hurt from our shared laughter; and my heart ached at the beautiful and delicious impermanence of it all.
Spring reminds us to savor, does it not?
Savor, friends. This day, its simple gifts, and the deliciously fleeting chapter in which you stand.