This morning our French clocks leapt one hour closer to spring. Combined with jet lag, it felt more like a shove than a spring. I put one foot in front of the other and walked in its sunlit path. The yellows were brightened against the green and I breathed in the change. 
Truth be told, all my good changes have probably come with a shove.
My child bedroom was painted in the yellow that now lights my morning path. I am transported to that country, that house, that bed, and I am dreaming. Nightmaring actually. In this dream, I am drawn to the unfinished bedroom down the hall. I know it will be bad when I get there, but I keep walking. I feel someone is dead underneath the bed. I don’t want to look, but I know I have to. I bend down below the hanging quilt. Lift the edges, and there I am, dead under this bed. 
I would dream this dream repeatedly until we lost the house and moved (shoved) to an apartment in town.  
We say goodbye to little parts of ourselves every day. We give up that hour of our lives and walked toward the yellow.  This dream no longer frightens me. I can recall it to mind, and see now, only the light.
I have been pushed out of home, out of comfort, out of school, out of job, and directly into myself.  And what a glorious and bright place to land. 
I felt it this morning – pressing against my ribs. The pressure was not taking my breath, but threatening to, and I knew if I let it, if I gave in to it, it would take over . . . just slightly at first, like a bully at school that teases you with a tap. I could feel the quiver in my lip, sending messages to my eyes, “You’re full! You’re full! Let it out.” And as certain as my lips were, the lump in my throat, the pressure in my chest, all agreed, and I began to cry. I knew each year we would say goodbye to winter. We would fluff up our wings and prepare ourselves for the song . . . the sweet song of spring. But it felt good to weep for it. Weep for the change. The transition. Weep for knowing we had lost another year, and weep out of pure joy for the possibility that these new skies held. Each year, I would tell you, “But, I’m not sad . . . it’s just so much inside, this love . . . ” 

“So it’s good then? You want to do it again? Feel it again?”

Thinking of what it would be like not to have this, what some might call pain, “Oh, yes,” I said. “I thank God that winter can move me as much as spring. I thank God that I can miss the seasons as they change and celebrate the new ones as they come. I thank God that I can love this much.” 

The tears smile in my eyes now, and I leap toward the day.