Traditions.

My days are unfolding in much the same way anymore. I'm up in the morning, treading a path into the office, cramming too many meetings and conference calls and emails into eight hours; sometimes staying late to finish a project, other times scurrying out the door to do my best to catch a yoga class or minutes on the treadmill, or dinners with friends or meetings for other organizations I'm involved with. Half the time my poor brain can't keep up and I barely finish one thought before I'm reminding myself to make a list of other thoughts I don't want to forget. And then, when I fall into bed at night, it is only a matter of hours before it starts all over again.

It used to be, everything about this world, this life, my days seemed bright, shiny, and new. The years felt long; the months, weeks, and day uncurled slowly - each one unveiling a new promise, a surprise, a wonder. The jobs, the cities, the apartments changed quickly. Just as I felt lulled into a routine I shook things up again, with rarely a moment of downtime in between.

******

I have been watching spring unfold, happily and gladly this year. The tulips are up, the pink and white blooms are popping on trees, and that bright, brilliant green shown only for a few weeks each spring is everywhere I turn. Every year it sneaks up on me, this season. She fights her fight slowly and one day I realize I don't need to reach for my hat and gloves as I walk out the door. A few mornings later I optimistically crack a kitchen window open for a few minutes, thrilled to pull in some fresh air. A few days later, I realize I might be safe swapping out my winter coat for a lighter jacket; I can leave the window open all day long. It's beautiful, lovely. I am so glad she is here, that she decided to return for another year.

That's the thing I truly love about spring. She is the most dependable girl I know.

******

I count on spring to come. I count on my days to unfold as they typically do. I appreciate the fact that even the most spontaneous among us usually needs some sort of routine. And yet, there are times - when I strike out for yet another work day or venture out for yet another meet-up with friends - that I feel too lulled into a routine. I find myself looking for The shiny. The new. The surprises.

This thought, that my days were blurring together too quickly, that the years were becoming harder to differentiate was frustrating me as of late. What do I do to make it new? I'd wonder as I boarded the T with all the other morning commuters. Have I found myself in such a groundhog day routine that every employee at my local coffee shop knows my order before I even open my mouth? How do I mix it up without dislodging and shattering all the comforts and routines I've worked so hard to get?

******

I sit on the T, ready for another day of work, when I notice, as we cross the Charles River, that the trees look a little more green than they did just two days ago. And there, there are the rowers out on the river in their crew boats; back again for another spring season. Again, I have another year where I can see the lights of Fenway Park from my bedroom. The days grow longer, I head to Sox games after work with friends, I begin to plan my potted garden on my porch. I soak up the longer days, the breeze in the air delights me to no end.

And so the cycle continues. The things that I count on, that I look forward to, return. They come back every year. They are, I realize, The Shiny. The New. And also, The Comforts. They are what I'm forming, they are the life I'm living. These things, these moments, these little bits of life, the world. These are my days, my world.

In my little life, in my little way I am carving out my own little markings of a season, a month, a day in the life. And I think that perhaps I don't always need the shiny, the bright, the new. I'll take the comfort, the traditional unfolding, the faith that there are certain things in this world we truly can count on, no matter what. Like the flowers, the grass, the leaves on trees. They come back every year.

And that, for me, for now, is enough.