It was 70 degrees last week, and then it snowed. March is funny like that. I’m reminded of Emily Dickinson’s poem (and Copland’s setting), “Dear March, Come In”:
“Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—
I got your Letter, and the Birds—”
Oh, yes—the birds. Have you noticed them lately?
The robin’s first brave call into the still, dark morning (courage!): A song to wake the world.
The geese honking in discord—the heralds of spring—rising up from the blue edges of the horizon and writing messages in the cool white sky. V is for… Victory? Velocity? Veritas?
The two-note motif of the chickadee, actively transposing, and the tuneful slide whistle of the cardinal, reaching new heights. A reminder to consider how much we’ve grown since last year.
The chatter of the sparrows in the yew hedges—much like us on the first warm evening of the year, greeting neighbors as we all stepped out for our pre-dinner walks.
The streak of a striped wing in the garden—a bold, cobalt brushstroke across the backyard canvas—as the blue jay swoops down and disappears under the arborvitae.
March, it turns out, has a lot to say.
It’s full of surprises and discovery, curiosity and boldness. It’s daring and brave, but also kind and gentle. And maybe that’s what we need right now, in this in-between moment—permission to be both.
To return to something familiar
and let our ambitions soar.
To lead the way forward
and lean into the comfort of community.
To savor the extra daylight
and find the courage to sing in the dark.
Maybe March is about becoming: A reminder that we’re always learning and evolving; figuring out who we are and who we want to be, and finding our way home.
I’ve been thinking about this line from Quinn Bailey's poem:
“Maybe our job is that of the
Birds,
Simply to collect the soft things
Of the world
And sing about it.”
To look beneath the surface and see what’s waiting. To trust that change is coming. To imagine a world that is yet to be.
Dear March, come in!
