Spring is in Utah to stay. All the trees have begun blooming, each at its own rate. Our windows are now permanently open, and we've taken two heavy winter blankets off of our bed. I've put my sweaters into storage at the top of our closet, and I've taken out my shorts and short-sleeved shirts. Looks like I'll be buying fewer long summer shirts than I originally thought--most of them should be suitable for a growing bun. I feel well-prepared.

Open windows means the constant sound of traffic on the nearby freeway. If I don't think about it too much, it sounds like the flow of the ocean or the roar of rapids. Still, if I concentrate on that flow, my ears go mad and I have to turn on some sort of ear distraction to counter that constant static. On the pleasant side, open windows also mean hearing the birds that are in abundance in this complex. They often swoop and chase each other and cry for food or call in warning. It's an interesting contrast, having all these birds in a complex full of people. Two separate worlds in one place.

The light quality changes in the spring, too. Not only are the days longer, stretched toward both sides of morning and night, but the light is less blue, less filtered, more direct. Most of the time, it means an occasional headache and fatigue for me--there's something in me that has to be reset to the new angle of the sun and the new constant in temperature.

Some of that is caused by the onset of seasonal allergies, but every year, it feels like there's this switch inside me that has to flipped, some sort of puddle that has to be thinned out by a child's frenetic movement. Then I have finally turned around and been thrilled by the new light that was once behind me. My eyes have forgotten the dark and the headache is gone.
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