Mindful Living: Spring in Vermont

The other day I peeled off the plastic sheeting from the back door and peaked out. My cats peaked out too; all three of us with our heads poked out to the sunshine and our butts still warmed by the heater just inside. Is it spring?

If we were down south with my sister, the question wouldn’t be so nebulous. Down in the spring of her garden are little green things poking up through the mess of winter leavings, and wool coats piled by the front door, forgotten. There’s no doubt in my sister’s mind, and for that I’m envious. Here in Vermont, things still look a little muddy, literally and figuratively.

Still, being a person who mostly travels the realm of her imagination, I’m convinced that spring hath arriveth, even if it doesn’t start officially until the 20th. After a long dark winter schmoozing with my computer, I want to open up the windows and doors and let the butterflies, ladybugs, and neighborhood cats wander in.

There’s little point in trying to keep out the Hinesburg wildlife because my apartment is something of a magnet for creatures of every sort. Whether or not the door is left open, a variety of spiders, cute and otherwise, adorn my ceilings. This morning, a daddy long-legs scaled the shower wall, using water droplets as handholds in a spider “climbing wall.” I steadfastly ignored him and reminded myself that spiders eat the other more icky insects, something my mother was always quick to point out.

Indeed, I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve always believed that my cats have a right to self-determination, so I leave the sliding door open a cat’s tummy width so they can wander about the burdocks of the back yard. My feeling is that I’d rather they had short delirious lives leaping after butterflies than long dull ones under the protective custody of my apartment. Despite this philosophical dedication to my cats’ happiness, they mostly sit on the brink of the door, at least until summer is firmly committed.

The neighborhood pets undoubtedly sense the animal-friendly atmosphere as well, and make regular social calls to my place. One of the most persistent is an orange-striped tabby, twenty pounds, and dead set on moving in. I may have mixed feelings about him (sometimes I weaken and stroke his broad furry head), but my cats don’t. They hiss and get all worked up, but can’t fight something twice their size. When not sneaking into my bedroom to curl up on the comforter, he’s sitting in the window box outside the bathroom mewing delicately. I’m convinced that he used to live in my apartment, maybe even was born here. What else would explain his absolute and determined conviction?

If only I could escort him out as easily as the various and sundry insects. If only my cats recognized their duty to make appetizers of the excess spiders, or at least the ones that drop down beside them. Perhaps this is the tradeoff for harboring such a peculiar philosophy, not to mention a belief that spring is just outside my door, despite signs pointing toward another snow.

Cats and bugs notwithstanding, I’m convinced that if the ice has melted sufficiently on the parking lot down to the mailbox, the seasons they are a changin’.

Copyright February, 1999

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