Hannah M. Clipston

There’s a special kind of sadness that seems to come with spring – Florence and the Machine, South London Forever

Days are becoming brighter, the crocuses are blooming purple along the pathways and I still have my stubborn confidence, despite the indecipherable, relentless weight that rests in my heart, that everything will turn out the way it is meant to. You can’t predict the arrival of this feeling. It slips in quietly between the sleepless nights and the days of questions you can’t give answers to: What’s your next move? When are you going to have time for this and that? Why don’t you seem yourself? Suddenly you’re lying awake at night reevaluating the situation, thinking about yourself far too much, wondering if you’re a failure. It permeates the bones of you and lingers under the surface of everything, defensive in its position, so all other feelings never go beyond skin-deep. The world around me presses on into spring but I lay awake at night, counting my blessings, repeating them, knowing I need to rely on them. Because I don’t want to seem ungrateful for the very precious life I have. If I could explain the feeling to others, perhaps they would better understand why it is enough for me just to get through the day. Why sometimes words are somber, sliding down the window like a steady raindrop, indescribable. But I hold tightly to the feelings I want to let go of, worried that they will harm others the way they harm me. Only speak of them when it’s myself and the night: I lay with that dark, suppressive sky above me and tell it, there will be some light, you know. Because I am not ungrateful for the very precious life I have. Even when I hold this feeling, my family and friends continue to love me, writing still gives me a focus, reading still gives me perspective, I can take good care of my body, and then one day – ah! – an idea hits me. All my writing turns to prayers and hope. Words go down on the page, one after the other. They permeate the roots of me and bring me back to the earth, defensive in their position, so all my love branches out from me. The world around me presses on into spring and that we are still here to enjoy it is a miracle. What have you failed at? I ask myself. This life that I planned to cherish and devour, licking my greedy fingers clean, drinking up every last drop from the bottle. My life that I packed up into a bag at 22 and carried south with no plan, just a desire to experience something new. I ask myself How can you fail at something you never had a plan for?

Days are becoming lighter, the candle in my bedroom is lavender scented and I still have my stubborn confidence that there’s a part of this world that was made for me. This world that poses while I make poetry of it. And after the poetry falls into place, so does the motivation to finish up some of that lingering hurt. The old clothes that lay unworn, the dust and possessions I have gathered and no longer have love for. One by one the weight lifts, the trees become a forest and the moment of doubt has passed. You can’t predict the departure of that feeling, but eventually it slips out between footsteps and in the moments your mind takes a breath, silences. You can’t predict how long the goodbye will last, but it does no good to be scared when it’s time to pack your life into a bag and press on, with the world, into spring.

Would things be easier if there was a right way? Honey, there is no right way – Hozier, Someone New