Spring celebrations always seem to be pastel themed, something I never quite understood as a child. Did pastels somehow relate to Easter or Passover? Growing up in New England, spring never particularly struck me as colorful, it brought to mind the gray of April showers or the brown of the springtime mud season as the snow finally receded. Autumn was our color season in New England, the one where natural beauty grabbed you in ways you simply couldn’t ignore.
And then, last year something changed, and it all clicked. Pushing my son’s stroller around the neighborhood last April, I suddenly saw it all. Maybe it was the oxytocin flowing as I strolled my son around the city, or the relief of meeting a work deadline, but suddenly all the pastels popped. Spring, I realized, has far more colors than autumn—the new buds on the branches of trees glow a pinkish hue when viewed from afar; purple crocus buds peek through the mud; the gray winter sky fades away to reveal a crisp pale blue. The pollen, despite its propensity to drive my allergies crazy, leaves a soft green phosphorescent sheen on the cars and sidewalks.
Try opening your eyes to…
