Paying Attention to the Details

May 24, 2015

The Boston Globe

There's no way to slow down time, to change the pace of the here and now and have this finally lush, incredibly beautiful spring linger. I know this. But winter was so long, not because time did the impossible and actually inched to a crawl, but because we did. Heavy coats, boots, hats, gloves, snow, sleet, wind, cold, inertia — they weighed us down and they slowed us down, too.

Frozen. That's what we were for months, like the Tin Man, in need of something not as simple as oil to loosen our limbs, but in need of spring.

And spring took its time coming, the snow and ice like a stubborn army that refused to retreat.

But it's over now, the battle won, for a while, anyway. And we're on the move again. We're walking and running and riding bikes and meeting friends and batting balls around in our backyard or watching our kids or grandkids bat balls. We're digging in the dirt and washing windows and sweeping garages and driveways and lighting the grill and wearing cotton, not wool.

But time is on the move, too. Like a stream that was buried in snow and has finally thawed, it's rushing along. The clock doesn't recognize this. It beats the way it always has, second by second, still 24 hours in every day.

But time is different now, no matter what the clock says.

The crocuses and the hyacinths, the first flowers of spring, bloomed and passed in a heartbeat in the cold beside mounds of still-frozen snow. Blink and they were gone. The daffodils and forsythia and the magnolia trees and the dogwoods — all of them burst into bloom one by one and then quickly disappeared, even as we watched. The tulips, perfect only a week ago, red and purple and orange and gold — lean, lanky things that brightened patches of lawns — are the most recent to turn our heads and then fade and shrivel.

Snow lasts for months. Flowers less than two weeks. Spring becomes summer while you're changing the sheets.

I watched my lilacs open. They were clenched tight for so long, the sun scant, March and April bitter cold. Then slowly, slowly, the tiny buds unfurled. I looked at them every day. I waited. And then finally, there they were, one sunny afternoon, magnificent, effulgent things, the lightest shade of lilac whose sweetness perfumed the whole backyard.

They lasted for 10 days. Just 10 days. I watched them grow pale, like a girl in a Victorian novel destined to fade before our eyes. They were destined, too. They bloomed. They faded. And now they're gone.

At least I paid attention. That's what I tell myself. Because this is what I learned from the long, cold winter: to pay attention. To take it all in, every bit of it, every day, no matter what is going on in the big world or in my own little world. Pay attention. A single tree is magnificence. Blue sky. Green grass. They feed the soul. Random gardens. The Blue Hills. The smell of rain. Clouds. Sky. The ocean. The windows open. The front door, too. No ice underfoot, only in drinks. Drinks served with little umbrellas. On a deck. Outside. The sun shining. The sun hot. Lobster. Fried clams. Sullivan's. Shorts. Visors. Sandals.

All of these things, what I longed for mere weeks ago.

From my office window, from which I could see nothing for months, the snow so high it covered every pane, I now watch my rhododendrons bloom. In the past two days, their pursed green buds have become great, magenta blossoms. There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They won't last but a few weeks either, but here they are now, in all their glory.

And I am awed. And grateful. And determined to keep paying attention all summer long.