An optimist is the human personification of spring. -Susan J. Bissonette

Every day I wake up a little more giddy than the day before. Steaming cup of coffee in hand, I challenge my slippers to take on the dew and head out the door to see, literally, whats new. I give a nod of acceptance that the daffodils whose emergence a few weeks back felt more glorious to me than any 4th of July fireworks show are on their way out.

I wonder if my neighbors think Im nuts. Of course they do, I tell myself. Were the family who moved in, during an ice storm, just ten days before Christmas. Were the family with a giant Santa on the porch before the refrigerator was delivered. We pluck worms off the driveway after the rain and rush them inside (to feed the lizards). They dont even know my name yet, but theyve undoubtedly noticed that I trail behind my kids en route to the bus stop wearing soggy slippers. They know that several times a day I meander around my yard inspecting tiny buds with all the geeky intensity of the Professor on Gilligans Island. Neighbors know all.

They way I see it, a person only gets one springtime in a new house. With every soon-to-be bloom, Im reminded that even though we bought this house because we loved the staircase off the kitchen, every drop of rain and every bump up the thermometer brings a new reason to justify that shiny new mortgage payment. Ive got my eye on a row of bushes outside our bedroom windows that Im hoping are lilacs. In a few days, Ill have my answer.

Even as I marvel at how much a fully wooded lot can add to the natural soundtrack of a homeribbit, chirp, chirp, coo, ribbitI cant help but wonder how Ill feel next spring. (As the author of a book with an ambitious title like Live in the Moment, I continually chastise myself for such thoughts.) Twelve months from now, I will already know what secrets lay beneath the soggy soil -- spring will be the same, old, glorious spring.

The same, old, fragrant awakening from a long, groggy nap with ice-cold toes.

The same, old feast for the eyes as dogwood blossoms burst from mere sticks.

The same, old sense of liberation for bare arms as they surface from somewhere within and feel the warmth of the sun instead of washable wools.

Okay. So maybe worrying about next spring is a waste of precious energy. Maybe I have better things to ponder before they vanish! I hear a woodpecker and I need to know which tree hes in

Activity Exercise: Walk around your yard (in your slippers?) and try to see the awakening of your own personal world as if its for the very first time. Even if you live in a warm climate, something new is happening out there and wouldnt you hate to miss it?