Every year, usually in mid to late February, I have a green attack. This annual malaise sends me out into the cold and snow in search of a warm oasis of green growing things. It’s all about finding a sign, any sign, of spring. I’m on a mission, in search of something that is really green. I know that it is early so I trek to the local greenhouse. It turns out that I am not alone. There are a lot of us there, looking at daffodils and smelling the forced hyacinth bulbs. We wander along the aisles of the greenhouse commenting on the fact that we are tired of the cold. We want the snow to melt so that we can see the first green shoots of spring. We compare notes on the first pussy willow buds and wonder how soon we can force forsythia.
On this year’s pilgrimage I met a small group standing in front of a collection of soft furry green balls that looked like a cross between moss and grass. Later in the season none of us would have even noticed them, but now they looked just heavenly. One woman picked up a ball and buried her nose in it. Her friend looked startled and noted, “It can’t have a smell, can it? It’s just green.” “That’s just the point” her colleague noted, “It’s green, and it’s alive.” Following her lead, I had buried my nose in one as well. Yes, it was alive, and very, very green. It had that wonderful wet mossy smell that reminded me of little woodsy areas beside a small stream.
We all stood there without saying much, each with a small furry plant in hand. It was one of those moments of perfect wordless understanding. We were all there for the same reason, getting a much-needed head start on spring. Actually, it was more a reminder. Spring is going to come this year, just like it always does. We don’t have to hurry it along. It will come in its own way and time. But until it gets here I have a nameless soft furry ball on my coffee table. Every time I walk by it I smile, and sometimes when the green attack gets too bad I just pick it up and bury my nose in anticipation of spring.
