In Like a Lion

When I was little, I was captivated by the phrase "March comes in like a lion but goes out like a lamb." Why, I am not certain. I do know that as a child I was always looking for certainty...so even a phrase that confidently predicted the weather may have been a welcome guarantee. Or perhaps I just liked the way the cold weather was described as a lion, and the warm weather as a lamb. A simile I could grasp.

March definitely roared in like a lion yesterday – just when I’d made peace with this winter’s lack of snow and my own readiness for spring. I’m not a big fan of a winter without snow, though recently I’ve been struck by the beauty of winter’s snowless palette.

One thing I love about living in this strange place, so different from the suburbia where I grew up and the urban areas I chose to live as a young adult, is the connection it brings with the changing landscape.

In the mornings I walk my dog down a street that leads out of town. It’s a strange street, because it is lined with houses and a sidewalk on one side and an enormous farm with a beautiful stone farmhouse and barn on the other. The farmland has gentle slopes and sections of thickets. Any time of year, on any given day, it can take my breath away. Not in a Grand Canyon kind of way, but in the way a single flower can bring you to your knees if you see it at the right time, when you’re in a particular frame of mind.

Last week, when I was out walking, I was struck by all the subtle variations of brown and barely green that paint the winter landscape. The pale hues seem to make the stripped trees appear darker, almost black, and the sycamore trees look even whiter. The sycamores look so wise and old and surprising. Sometimes they remind me of Gandalf.

Soon the trees and plants will blush and bud. The lion will be tamed, and spring will be here. But first we’ll shovel snow.