The battle between the snooze button and subjecting your finally-warmed toes to frigid tile is lessened. Coffee is more of a delicacy and less of a lubricant. My drive to campus is pleasanter, as Nashvillians don't just abhor bad weather, they stand stock-still until it's gone...often in the middle of West End Avenue.
Sunshine gives stained glass the freedom to be all it can be. In every building, the Jr. High Biology Classroom on Video Day-feeling of dimmed lights, cold desktops, and heavy eyelids is banished.
This is when the whole campus is buzzing, and you can safely assume that everyone...even musicians...have experienced some of the day. Welcome, all.
If you can practice carelessness, I do it in the spring. After dinner, I skip outside with no jacket, under no threat of frostbite or walking pneumonia. My idealized hope is that it's not so warm that people take too many clothes go off, but just enough...you know...so that you can identify friends from a quarter of a mile away. Or something.
The weather tells me that another day like this is coming, and that it's worth sleeping now to wake up for. Spring is the seasonal version of "the first day of the rest of your life," a phrase which I would have wagered a college textbook that my friend and I coined in our freshman year at Benedictine. It's fine, you can all use it.
Take yesterday, for instance:
I woke early, dropped my dear friend off at work, convinced myself on the way home that the weather warranted a celebration, bought myself a coffee, drank half, and called mission partners to thank them for being as in love with this mission as I am. Consolation Nation.
Walked into the Cathedral to participate in one of the sweetest, most beautiful Masses in my life. It was the Feast of St. Joseph, foster father of Jesus, and Angelle was receiving her First Holy Communion. Picture an angelic little girl, bedecked in white, looking as close to Original Innocence as she ever has, stretching her elbows all akimbo so they reach the top of the ornate kneeler, beaming at her mom when Father mentions her name in the homily. I would like to believe that God sees me looking like Angelle. And it is good.
A friend and I take the Eucharist to Catholic patients in the hospital, and the Divine Physician comes to his sick with unparalleled medicine. We prolong the celebration at Fido, toasting with scrambled eggs and salsa.
I head uptown to run errands, and find a moving sale. It's warm enough for people to sell me their picture frames and dishes! A Civil War battlefield monument sign stops me, so I park to take a seven minute look around. Pulling into my driveway, I see a neighbor on her porch. We've never met, so I tiptoe onto her lawn and call out "We've never met, but I live next door and I like your wicker chairs!" She tells me her name, the name of her husband, and that her contractions are ten minutes apart. Their baby girl is coming! I start a short run, and wave as I go, shouting that I hope they are off to the hospital before I'm back to stretch. (Next day update: still no word. They probably are house-hunting for neighborhoods with no shouting.) I catch up on the phone with a good friend, and she is well.
Catholics know how to celebrate. A group of 20 women gather in the Frassati House and load the table with a baked goods extravaganza. We hear about the life of St. Joseph, and share our experiences from praying a thirty day prayer to ask for his intercession in our vocations. Game over. Day's a success. We bring a latte to the hospital for our sweet, on-call roomie, and fall into a deeeep sleep.