Feels Like Spring
Even though Spring technically began on February 4th—the official Chinese New Year—two solar cycles ago per the Chinese calendar, it didn’t feel much like spring until today. It wasn’t that snow began to thaw or that fields of tulips started blooming; it was subtler, perhaps just a change in my perception. Today, the early morning somehow smelled fresher, the drops of dew on blades of grass looked plumper, the sunlight struck me as brighter, the birds were no longer using their ‘library voices’.
And even though I know the seasons progress dependably, that Spring follows Winter as naturally as the main course follows the appetizer, much to my own surprise, it caught me by surprise—the abruptness of the feeling of change.
It was probably the butterflies. Regal painted ladies. Hundreds of thousands of them. Flying through the backyard, gracefully dodging the lemon tree, oak tree branches, the roof gutter, among other obstacles as they made their way to Oregon to presumably lay larvae. This particular group spent the winter hibernating—yes, not only large furry mammals hibernate—in Mexico and I suppose it got warm enough for them to decide to get moving and migrate. Frankly, I initially mistook these painted ladies for monarchs, but no matter, getting the taxonomy wrong didn’t affect their beauty or my wonder.
For about five hours, from the late morning through mid-afternoon a sporadic stream of painted ladies traversed the yard, from east to west, taking advantage of the pleasantly cool wind blowing for extra horsepower. Some caught just the right angle and were able to take a quick break and glide for a few seconds, their outstretched wings reminiscent of stained glass art pieces ranging from pale yellow to that characteristic deep orange hue.
With certainty, I can say this is the first time this has occurred in the last 16 years. It is the type of experience that may seem uneventful, that is to say, there isn’t much action or sound, but it will be deeply etched in my mind for the years to come. The sense of awe that small, fragile creatures can inspire. The smile it can bring to your face for no apparent reason. Those initial minutes truly were breathtaking, as the delight of the unexpected set in and I just dropped what I was doing, pausing to simply feel the wind that propelled them forward. It may be as close as I get in this life to that magical “Colors of the Wind” sequence in Pocahontas.
The seasons are a favorite in daoist metaphors. There is much to contemplate about their very nature. They come every year, sometimes earlier that prior years and sometimes later, but can you say they are ever late? There is no wrong or right time for the seasons to begin, they just come. No one can force one season to change to another. They simply naturally progress and change. Change. It is their nature. It is effortless.
Butterflies are equally, if not more in the demand when it comes to allegories. There is a particular one that I have always liked, one that avoids being trite. When you see a butterfly struggling mightily to break out of the cocoon, you must not help it out. If you cut the opening wider, for example, making the process much easier for the butterfly to emerge, it will never be able to fly. Its wings will be shriveled, its body disproportionate.
On a day like this, you may think that I chose to drink a lightly oxidized tea e.g., green, white, or raw puer, to match that light, bright feeling in the air. In fact, I chose to drink a ripe puer aged 5 years. Deep, rich, earthy, chocolate-y. Almost the exact antithesis of Spring. I guess I enjoy the contrast.
Photo credit: https://visitncsmokies.com/