As the ice retreats from the lakes

When I departed from campus this morning, I was struck by the observation that East Gemini is nearly open. What seemed so out of reach just a week ago is almost behind us, a few sheets of ice clinging to life on the southern shore. I watched the morning light bounce off a choppy surface and found some comfort in the sight of two loons on the hunt for food, grateful for the open water. It’s spring. There’s life again. I like that.

The wild leek will be among the first plants to break the cold soil. Come May, I’ll watch it spread in clusters beneath the white oaks. Soon to follow is the ostrich fern. Safely kept in a crown beneath the frosty surface during the cold months, it sends leaflets uncoiling toward the canopy when greeted with warm spring weather. Even the waterfowl have returned to capitalize on the flooded wetlands. With an attentive ear, you can hear the endless flocks of Canada geese stopping by on their long journey north. Listen closer, and in a few weeks you’ll hear the tunes of migratory songbirds; the bluebirds and warblers who retreated to the southern states for winter. The woods are in flux. It’s a time of transition.

Since this is an “opinion” piece, not simply a love letter to eastern hardwood forests, I’ll offer some reflection. It’s fun to find the parallels between the happenings of the natural world and the happenings of my personal life. I’m at the cusp of graduation with merely a whisp of a post-grad plan. But, just as the receding ice makes space for new life, as does the finality of my time as a Johnnie make space for new experiences.

There’s certainly some peace to be found in understanding the systems and transitions of natural spaces, finding ways to relate them to your life. These changes ought to teach us all something if we take the time to listen and reflect. As the spring progresses, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, searching for the first leaves of wild leeks and for new ruminations.