A Belated Love Letter to April
Seven Aprils ago, my first son was born. I went into hospital at the end of a long, heavy winter, and came out into a spring so bright and clear that we barely dressed those first few weeks, my transition into milk machine aided by the lack of London's usual required layers of clothing.
It isn't always as glorious as that, but April still feels like salvation to me: the moment when the air begins to smell of flowers instead of damp; when I can work without a hot water bottle on my lap; when the promise of summer starts to feel plausible.
This Easter, I left my house lurking in its dark, damp garden and returned a week later to find it adrift in a sea of long grass and wildflowers, the borders blanketed in forget-me-nots and the cherry and apple tree candy floss clouds of blossom.
London is still London - the air this early may morning is grey and damp - but April breaks the seal on winter's impermeable coating.
I started to write these letters partly as self-medication - if I focused each week on something I loved about the winter, I reasoned, it would make it all seem less bleak. And it worked. Then along came April, with her flowers and (occasional) warm, clear skies, and suddenly my love letters felt like a trivial pursuit. With apple blossom wafting on the breeze, the need to find something to love seemed less pressing, while the need to earn more and achieve more only increased.
But shutting down screens, shutting out the shoulds and coulds and pausing to appreciate the smell of mimosa or the salvation of a hot shower after a sleepless night isn't really self-indulgence, it's indulging in the art of living instead of just existing.
And so, with April gone, and the knowledge that there will always be work and commitments and other things more urgent than stopping to smell the roses, I'll indulge again.