There is a peculiar magic to the month that sits squarely in the middle of spring. Not the shy, hesitant beginning of March, where winter still keeps a cold hand on the landscape. Not the lush, confident fullness of May, when leaves are fully out and the world has gone green and drowsy. No—the true heart of the season belongs to April.
You notice it in the evening. Suddenly, dinner is not eaten in darkness. Suddenly, there is time for an after-supper walk. The world stays open longer. Porch lights come on later. There is a sense, in the last week of April, that winter is finally, truly, behind us. The dogwoods explode in white and pink. The redbuds set the roadsides on fire. The air smells of cut grass and damp earth and something else—something that might be hope. We do not just survive April. We earn May. The lilacs will come, and the irises, and the peonies heavy with ants and scent. The tomatoes will go in the ground, and the corn will rise, and the light will turn syrupy and golden. But none of that happens without April. None of that happens without the rain and the mud and the false starts. None of that happens without the willingness to plant seeds in cold soil and trust that the world knows what it is doing. month in spring
Go outside. The door is open. The mud is deep. And the world, for the first time in months, is waking up. There is a peculiar magic to the month