In late July, as I was photographing a friend’s hands clasping pebbles from a Greek beach, I pronounced myself a “summer person.” I did so with the awareness that being Greek and being a “summer person” was, practically, a tautology, but I declared myself one with certainty regardless: “Definitely a summer person,” I said, and I was off to the water once again.
By late October, as I was pointing my camera up at a red tree whose leaves reminded me of everything I missed about New England autumn, I had changed my mind. “I’m a fall girl, I declared.”
Not even for the sake of a writerly analogy can I pretend that by mid-February, as I was trudging through the post-snow slush, I was a full convert to Boston winter. And still, something about the sound of synchronized snow shoveling interrupting the piercing quiet after a heavy snowstorm that resonates with me. Elijah caught on to how fickle I was with my attachment to seasons and remarked, “You are, apparently, an all-seasons girl. I don’t want to hear it. You love summer, and you love fall, and you love winter.”
And then there was spring.
I felt it today, that familiar anxiety of spring, as the world was in mid-thaw, snow droplets dripping into gutters. For more about my apprehension with spring, and the rawness this season triggers, wander over to today’s Eternally Nostalgic column at the Equals Record.