The slow procession of spring

Towards the final week of February I heard the sound and caught a glimpse of the church caretaker the Messner a pious EastGerman man clearing the dried fallen leaves that had carpeted the premisesWith each swish of his broom it seemed like winter was being erased I saw a giant transparent plastic bag stuffed with the remains The two vestigial blocks of piled ice near the entrance to the church had melted away tooSnow seemed like a distant memory and I finally grasped its ephemerality My tongue still bore traces of the taste of collected flakes My memory of its flavour is intertwined with the accompanying scents of burning wood and incense Once the Messner was done the earth was visible once more as were the light tufts of grass that were already emerging It felt as though his administrations were responsible for a seasonal shift for soon after spring began to announce itself more ferventlyThe whorled nodes I had seen on the ends of leafless tree branches seemed desperate to unfurl Because I have never before inhabited a landscape in which I have experienced the total shedding of trees this springtime feels like a first In summer I had got acquainted with the foliage to the point where I could look at a tree and identify it The absence of leaves affected my ability to tell which was which beyond the obviousAs the year repeats itself Irsquom privileged to be present to see what the blossoms of fruits I know look like how they appear to burst forth The hazelnut tree for instance is in bloom and the yellow flowers hang in inchlong trails from the branches like luminous jewelsI was astonished to find that the plumred fruit known in English as Cornelian cherry in fact emerges from a flush of bright goldenyellow florets I have been photographing them obsessively to remind myself of their origin story when my partnerrsquos aunts will eventually gift us a cordial they make from the fruit Last year I had tasted loquat or Japanese Mispel for the first time and was surprised by the interplay of sweet and sour textures The tree arranges the flowers in bunches similar to how the yellow fruit will eventually be formedLast week my partner took me to Fruumlhlingstal which literally translates to Spring Valley Itrsquos nestled in the middle of a short mountain chain within the Etsch valley He told me that through the rest of the year the terrain seems fairly ordinary however in early spring it becomes a spectacle I was amazed to find whole swathes of white flowers that bow towards the ground as if in prayer The local name for them translates to little snow bells They look like their name and were ubiquitous occasionally contrasting against the purple of another bloomAfter the monotone of snow colours seem all the more resplendent When we go on our daily walks I have to pause every now and then at the sight of grass growing at the base of the vineyards which offers a green undertone to my vision My fatherinlaw recently planted 1000 tulips in the garden of the winery in which we live I cannot imagine yet how they will appear when they bloom I cannot imagine yet the colours the waxy petals will assumeThe blood beech tree stationed exactly in front of my window within the church premises whose leaves the Messner had swept away is also slowly preparing for its metamorphosis When the new copperred leaves emerge and assume density I will lose my view of the two snowcapped mountains on the immediate horizon I had come to depend upon their rosy glow during the sunset hour It always felt like an event The last full moon also rose from that directionIrsquove been thinking a lot about what it means to witness all of this To encounter spring as a gradual procession a slow stirring of colours a seamless elongation of daylight and what it might mean to lsquohaversquo time I find I am fuelled by daily doses of hope not in a way that feels external but through the internalising of the sight of all of this bounty and beauty To somehow grasp that the matter that constitutes my body is not dissimilar from that which I confront to feel a oneness with the blossoms with snowirrigated soil with the crosspollinating bees and the wild scent of moist leaves is to glean a kinship with divinityDeliberating on the life and times of Everywoman Rosalyn DrsquoMello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover She tweets RosaParx Send your feedback to mailbagmiddaycomThe views expressed in this column are the individualrsquos and donrsquot represent those of the paper