In Winter the short days propel you into a vortex when the appearance of a purple flower in half-bloom stuns you to a great fear of how time is passing and how contrary to before you do make part of this time. What an awful burden to carry.
You go indoors and when you are indoors you sometimes think of what to do with the little time you have left and if it is even worth continuing the tasks you were given.
You forget about this purple flower for a moment.
The next day you go outside again and you see the purple flower is in full bloom, with another new bud on the way. The speed of time suddenly becomes a marvel and not a horror, as this new flower excites you. You suddenly notice the orange blossoms in the tree, the almond tree budding and the grape vine curling into new directions.
You see the future that is already present and suddenly you are okay with time, and you allow it to pass because what happens next, with or without your presence, is going to be beautiful.
For a long time I struggled with the etymology of the English word ‘Spring’. Knowing its Germanic sister with a more vulgar-sounding beginning did not make it appear less ugly, as within me, the word made me think of a cheap cartoon compared to an impressionist painting of the french “Printemps” (the first times?) the Italian “Primavera” (the first truth?) and the (according to my rudimentary and ludic understanding of etymology in general) victorious Maltese “Rebbiegħa” (the Maltese word for 'winner' is rebbiegħ).
I thought, for such a rewarding and relieving time of the year, the English word is but a lazy, aimless throw in a haste to complete the language.
Sure, I thought dryly, sure that one feels like one has an extra spring to their step once the cold clouds and winds are met with the first caressing rays of the sun, and when the garden spews out small indications of what lies beneath. But this quick motion is a frail nod to the volumes of the violence of life and the persistence of continuation peppered by endless beauty. Today was no different to the previous days of garden-bathing, but I was privileged with a little more time to spare to assess the growing buds that reassure that time does not pass for nothing. I crouched, I squatted, I stretched and tiptoed above the humid earth to scrutinise the buds. Some of them allowed me a hint of their inner foldings of flower ready to burst. I could see that they were only a spring away from being launched into space, launched into being a flower.
And now I like the word a little more.