Transition From Winter To Spring Quotes

It was still late summer elsewhere, but here, high in Appalachia, fall was coming; for the last three mornings, she'd been able to see her breath. The woods, which started twenty feet back from her backdoor like a solid wall, showed only hints of the impending autumn. A few leaves near the treetops had turned, but most were full and green. Visible in the distance, the Widow's Tree towered above the forest. Its leaves were the most stubborn, tenaciously holding on sometimes until spring if the winter was mild. It was a transitional period, when the world changed its cycle and opened a window during which people might also change, if they had the inclination.

My time here is dwindling. Everything around me - my body, the transition from winter to spring, the height chart marking the growth of my daughter, Emily - reminds me that the hourglass that is my life has only a few grains of sand left.

More than any other season, winter requires a kind of metronome that ticks away its darkest beats, giving us a melody to follow into spring. The year will move on no matter what, but by paying attention to it, feeling its beat, and noticing the moments of transition—perhaps even taking time to think about what we want from the next phase in the year—we can get the measure of it.

It was another mild day, signaling the transition from winter to spring. The trees unfolded their leaves as they awoke from their long winter nap. In the cloudless blue sky, birds chirped as they floated from tree to tree on the light breeze and alighted to outstretched limbs. The first flowers of spring dotted the landscape with a prelude of the bright, vibrant colors about to spill over the muted and dull tones dominating the palate of the lifeless winter season just passed.

The river’s isolation and secrecy, however, were only part of what made it superlative. There was also its vertical drop. The Colorado’s watershed encompasses a series of high-desert plateaus that stretch across the most austere and hostile quarter of the West, an area encompassing one-twelfth the landmass of the continental United States, whose breadth and average height are surpassed only by the highlands of Tibet. Each winter, storms lumbering across the Great Basin build up a thick snowpack along the crest of the mountains that line the perimeter of this plateau—an immense, sickle-shaped curve of peaks whose summits exceed fourteen thousand feet. As the snowmelt cascades off those summits during the spring and spills toward the Sea of Cortés, the water drops more than two and a half miles. That amounts to eight vertical feet per horizontal mile, an angle that is thirty-two times steeper than that of the Mississippi. The grade is unequaled by any major waterway in the contiguous United States and very few long stretches of river beyond the Himalayas. (The Nile, in contrast, falls only six thousand feet in its entire four-thousand-mile trek to the Mediterranean.) Also unlike the Nile, whose discharge is generated primarily by rain, the engine that drives almost all of this activity is snow. This means that the bulk of the Colorado’s discharge tends to come down in one headlong rush. Throughout the autumn and the winter, the river might trickle through the canyonlands of southern Utah at a mere three thousand cubic feet per second. With the melt-out in late May and early June, however, the river’s flow can undergo spectacular bursts of change. In the space of a week, the level can easily surge to 30,000 cfs, and a few days after that it can once again rocket up, surpassing 100,000 cfs. Few rivers on earth can match such manic swings from benign trickle to insane torrent. But the story doesn’t end there, because these savage transitions are exacerbated by yet another unusual phenomenon, one that is a direct outgrowth of the region’s unusual climate and terrain. On

As unbelievable as it sounded to Fred, they thought it was just one big carnival. They didn’t come uptown for the maple stirs, didn’t care about the syrup producers’ contest or participants, didn’t like the queen contest, didn’t watch the bathtub race or the parades, and were negative in all aspects. When they looked at the square from the outside, it was only a cheesy carnival. If they would or could have viewed the festival from the inside, they would have seen a community celebration of the end of snow, the coming of green leaves and plants and shrubs, the flow of maple sap, the change from sap to syrup, the transition from winter to spring. They would have seen their neighbors walking their children uptown for a stir, for a turn on the Dragon Ride, telling their children to slow down; they could watch the high-school bands

So you tell Dad, and you two can make your peace with me not being the son you planned on. And I hope you decide to love the son you have.” He took a deep breath and saw her expression transition from shock to irritation to hurt.

Renewal is much more like going from fall through winter to spring than it is like taking a vacation from school or work or treating ourselves to something special.

A person can cultivate a new persona from a pâté of earthy personal experiences. How do I reconcile all my faults and propagate all my innate gifts to create the type of self that I am happy to claim responsibility for authorship? How do I go about turning over the peat moss that lines the feldspar of my rocky existence? How do I plow under the seedlings of my youth and grow a protective bed of winter clover to shield my adulthood? How do I mulch the clippings from variegated personal experiences, ferment the rot, harrow new rows, and plant hardy spring wheat to take root in the enriched chocolate loam of a fertile mind? Is all this laborious plow pulling work of creating a fresh and authentic self-identify worth the backbreaking effort? How does one go about revamping their personal storyline? How do I cast myself into a robust image that does not appall other people? My continued existence entails industriously giving seed to the lush myths that I live by, amassing dwindling personal willpower, and resolving to impose upon my weathered soul the missing character traits that wait forging in the glowering inferno fed by a rising mountain of ignited personal anxiety.

The hardest job is transitioning from winter to spring. Frozen ground melting to let sprouts shoot up, colorful flowers blossoming from each dead branch. That’s what tough looks like. As for summer, it simply needs to take a couple more steps forward using the momentum of spring. That’s why I think May is the laziest of all the months. A month that’s overrated.

The sugar moon, which is the closest full moon to the spring equinox, is said to usher in the best maple syrup weather, and marks the transition from winter to spring.

They were able to get so many strawflowers last week, they'd kept some for arrangements and had dried others to use in wreaths. Strawflowers held their color despite being dried, and the wreaths always turned out beautiful. Time consuming, yes, but beautiful. Great for the transition from winter to spring. Alice once saw an Etsy listing that called similar wreaths everlasting strawflowers, and she liked the phrasing so much she'd thought of them that way ever since.

More than any other season, winter requires a kind of metronome that ticks away its darkest beats, giving us a melody to follow into spring. The year will move on no matter what, but by paying attention to it, feeling its beat, and noticing the moments of transition—perhaps even taking time to think about what we want from the next phase in the year—we can get the measure of it.

To my mind early June is the most beautiful time of the year in Haines, for spring comes late and June is the transition period from spring to summer; but September is lovely too, and I have seen still, crisp days in October which I would not have exchanged for any other day in the year. It is often beautiful in winter, when the snow lies untrodden and sparkling upon the uplands and every twig on every tree is rimed with frost, and there are days in March when the wind blows cold and clear and great clouds sail majestically across the blue sky. But I could go on forever, finding its peculiar beauty in every month, so perhaps the truth of the matter is that Haines is my home and in my opinion there is no place like it.