March is Fearless

an artist working solely in the medium of unbridled enthusiasm

Salmonberry blossoms and “Entrance”. 03.21.25

The salmonberries have started to shine. Sparks in the void. Their delicate, magenta mouths, just beginning to learn how to speak. This slice of pink against the deep sea of green needles startles you. And though you wish you could be thankful for the surprise, you’re unable to muster up the courage to feel anything so free or so full. Within the confines of your late winter malaise, you figure that if you ignore this sprinkle of pink, then your winter laments, your affinity with the surrounding bleakness can continue uninterrupted.

But these salmonberry petals are here to be fruitful. They suffer none of your bad mood. Nor do the white elder leaves, tulip-ing their way out of the dark, knobby branches they’ve hidden inside for months. And if all this weren’t bad enough, weren’t enough to make you go mad in your ongoing effort to defy hope, you find, over in the wetland copse, an audacious smattering of skunk cabbage blooms—bright yellow and much too large. You pull the dog’s leash closer and pick up your pace. (If you don’t look at, it’s not happening.)

Yet it very much is happening. You can’t continue denying it. And every day that goes by you understand more and more that March is as unmoved by your reluctance to come out of your funk, as you are by her intricate displays of wonder and beginning and ignition. While you’re out there, feeling bad, eyes locked on your shoelaces, the earth will continue opening up, moving about, singing, expanding, unleashing its resilience; coming to terms with its magnificent infernal calling to Be, Be, Be.

This unruly display of optimism forces you to question if you should allow it—for yourself. Maybe a little optimism wouldn’t hurt? You could start with a sample size, once a day, just for an hour or so. More than that seems like an unwise investment. Throwing good feeling after bad. You’ll go slowly, and not shed this rough skin all at once. After all, there could be a reaction.

Your glacial emotional pace irritates the likes of March, who tells you so directly. At first you chalk her lack of decorum up to age. March is so young, so tender; so unfamiliar with the harsher realities of full-fledged adulthood. But what if this isn’t just a folly of an unlived life. What if this forehead-first, full-steam-ahead-regardless-of-the-forecast style of hers, is the core of her nature? After all, March is fearless, an artist working solely in the medium of unbridled enthusiasm.

The days go on and her efforts are boundless. March waters, whistles, beams, highlights, tends to, extracts, uncovers, scaffolds, carries, colors, emits, and fills while still having enough energy to warmly welcome all her feathered migrants back home. She doesn’t even ask where they’ve been.

March’s display of relentless giving, of going on no matter what, shakes your brittle defenses and leaves them in pieces on the floor. You’re certain she isn’t showing off, though she does expect an appropriate compliment now and then.

As would anyone. When you find her, one afternoon, walking up the steep slope toward the house, balancing Night and Day perfectly on her hands, her thin arms not strained in the least, you ask her where she finds the strength. She doesn’t answer. She just looks at you, with her light green eyes, and waits.

“I admire your stamina,” you say. “It’s incredible what you’ve been doing out here.”

—Yes, March says. Yes, it is.

March looks around without dropping Night or Day even a single inch—both of them, still perfectly balanced and equal, across her outstretched arms. Finally, she lets out a loud sigh.

—I’ll leave the flashy bits to April and May, March says, rolling her eyes a little before chuckling and carrying on up the hill.

It’s true, April’s got the tulips and May the rhododendrons. Compared to them, the salmonberry blooms seem like a first draft, an easy assignment. But without them, we’d never get out of our darkness; we would never find our first hour of hope.

-Thank you for reading.

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