If January was a time for hibernation, February brought dreary resignation, that is, until the full moon eclipse late in the month appeared like a modern day covenant with God.  Writ large, voluptuous, and smoky-orange in the Western sky, this spectacular omen meant change is on the way, I declared to anyone who would listen, clinging to any old illusionary port in the storm.  It was more than a little disappointing when snow and ice continued unabated for weeks. 

We began to feel distinctly wispy at this house about then, too long harried by cold and pent up in darkness. Early March brought us to our knees. It took the restless winds of that moon cycle, breathing on us day by day, to fan the coals of the weakening life force within. Listening to presidential candidates trade insults and accusations with one another leading up to the flurry of caucuses was not exactly a tonic, either. I confess to having flung a few murderous cries at office-seekers and blizzards, alike: "Enough, already!"    

We had to laugh (mirthlessly) during late March, while the weather god dithered back and forth, trying to make up his mind. One day hope, the next despair. It was a reminder of why for centuries in the Northern Hemisphere, pagans and believers have united in greeting March 21 with giddy relief. Hallelujah! At long last, the sun begins its long-awaited return from the farthest point on the frigid elliptical journey. Did you, too, fear it wouldn't? We count on it...yet there is always that grain of doubt.  And even if our very marrow is moved by the deep psychological and spiritual power of the vernal equinox, mostly we take this miracle for granted in this day and age. Buffered from the worst of nature's teeth by many layers of modern inventions, we rarely grapple with what our ancient forebears overcame to survive. 

Even so, April, blessed April, moves us chosen ones into a state of anticipation,  as trees bud and sap rises. The days lengthen out; there is reassuring warmth again in the sun's rays when we slosh through melting drifts to dump the latest bucketful of wood ashes. Quite literally, we see that there is light at the end of winter's dark tunnel --and hope, which  was loitering down the lane, just waiting for the right moment to spring eternal, springs.  

March is a teasing month, alternating extremes of mood and weather, but April, the poet T.S. Eliot maintained, "is the cruelest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land,/mixing memory with desire." As this is a harsher climate than the one in Eliot’s head, the lilacs will have to wait, but memory of  winter indeed mingles now with the intense desire to throw off layers of clothing and move unencumbered through the waking world of garden, woods, and trails. 

The plant totem of the Chippewa's Budding Trees moon cycle is the humble dandelion. To some, the hated dandelion. The mere sight of those vivid yellow blossoms is enough to send some of my lawn-tweaking friends into a frenzy of poisonous activity.  I gather the young dandelion greens to add to our salads myself, having read long ago that they have something like seven times the amount of vitamin A as carrots, plus vitamins B and C and minerals galore (calcium, phosphorus, iron and natural sodium, which purify and alkalize the blood.) It seems peculiar to purge our gardens of nourishing dandelions at great expense to us and cost to the environment, and then pop a multi-vitamin and mineral tablet for which we shelled out good money. The blossoms also pack a pleasant wallop in the form of wine. You might want to jump off the dandelion warpath and instead give them an honored place at your table. 

Another fine poet, Geoffrey Chaucer, wrote that April was the time in jolly olde England for people to go on pilgrimages. He didn't mean to hop in the car and head for the gambling casino or the beach. He meant get on your walkin' shoes, fill your pack with dried crusts and cheese curds, and strike out for a holy place where you can get your mind and soul in order for the rest of the year (or the rest of your life). As a bonus, he predicted you'd meet some great characters along the way. Although a puff up the steep hill to St. Ann's Shrine in Plain might do, right now I have another holy place in mind.  Surely, meditation and the stray deep thought or two could just as well happen in a landscape very different from what I see out my window every day -- I'm thinking someplace hot during the day, cool at night, dry as a bone, an exotic landscape populated by things that are as apt to prickle and sting you as delight you.  You know, the sort of solitary spot in which ancient prophets wrestled with demons and horned toads.  

But, if your budget can't accommodate a trip to the desert or any other literal pilgrimage, you could take a meaningful journey to the back yard. As the tree buds swell around you and the sap rises in your veins, look up and you're sure to find some inspiring company: red-tailed hawks, circling above on the rushing currents, elegant cloudscapes, and at night, skies pulsing with stars and bright planets. Rejoice a little. Afterward, in honor of your favorite saint (or sinner), chug down some ceremonial maple syrup, the sap of saps. Spring requires a vote of confidence to hasten it our way.