Energy

If you happen to have been in the south of England over the course of the past week, you may well have noticed that spring has most definitely sprung.

For the past seven days, we’ve enjoyed nothing but blissful blue skies, a world once again alive in something far greater than technicolour.

It’s the kind of vibrant that drives artistic genius; the kind that many would concede to capture.

There’s simplicity to it in the purest sense; a simplicity that somehow does everyone a favour as we shed our winter layers, take once again to wandering outdoors and for the braver beings among us, don our summer shorts.

If I’m honest, I’m not sure the warmth quite warrants the latter yet.

I’d imagine by 4pm a fair few of us have regretted leaving that jumper at home after hopping off to an impromptu beer garden gathering.

But I’m fond of the optimism.

It’s like an ode to now; a collective, unconscious embrace of living for the moment.

We each do it in our own way, but for me, part of it is watching plants do the same.

Seeing the magnolia blossoming, the blossom blooming and the blooms burgeoning is a joy. Even my houseplants are uplifted, thirsty just as we are with the promise of lighter, longer days.

Only yesterday my Mum and I pondered how people can go a lifetime without noticing each season’s ever-changing life signs.

Then again, just a few moments earlier, I’d unwittingly admitted that until recently, I can’t say I’d truly paid them proper attention either.

I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.

And there’s something about a week as beautiful as this that makes me think of all those who haven’t been here to see it.

Two beings in particular come to mind; one who touched my life for ten years, the other for little more than ten days.

Logically, I know they will have had no bearing on the weather.

But I like to think that at least a morsel of the world’s newfound energy emanates from them.

I’m not sure how, but I do know why.