I’ve always been deeply ambivalent about Spring.
One the one hand, it’s a time of renewal, with blossoms and buzzing bugs, brilliant sun ripping through the rain and clouds, and weather that begins the season so unpredictable, occasionally fooling you into thinking it will be Winter again, only to end with days that fool you into thinking that Summer has arrived. My spirits are lifted by the longer and warmer days, and the buddings erupting around me are more precious every year as I drink in their beauty.
On the other, skirts come out of closets, layers of clothing are removed, skin is bared, and the riot of color on the trees and flowers is rivaled by the colors and patterns that appear across bodices and butts, and jewelry previously hidden under layers of fleece and down are revealed like crocus in the snow. It makes me ache not to be able to a part of the changing of the wardrobe, and to know that I must trudge along in the drab slush of my male garb, when all I want is to join in the riot of color, motion, and display.
This Spring is turning out to be even harder for me as I stand on the cusp of change. I’m not fully out, I’m not on hormones, I’m not passable, and I’m not fully comfortable wearing clothes that don’t yet fit my body shape. There is a small comfort I gain in clothes I wear about the house, but the house is a cage, and I cannot live my life forever in a cage.
Thus for now, there is no respite from the longing, save for daydreams of next year’s Spring and how I might shake off the mantle of gray clouds and garb, and open like a bud to display my true inner colors.