Can you feel it, too?

And just like that, spring tumbles in.

I arrived home in Boston on Sunday afternoon, and the city greeted me with newly budded trees, daffodils, a few hyacinths, and even a cluster or two of tulips. Sunny skies, warm wind, open windows—I drove north from Providence airport and returned to a different clime’, a new New England, and I loved every second of newness, of discovery.

Fitting, too, considering my long weekend involved lots of new discoveries, including: Philadelphia murals, old friends’ laughter, early season baseball games, late afternoon walks down South Street, long talks laced with unknown tidbits and stories about those you thought you knew oh so well, lost IDs and credit cards (yeah, that’s another story), long-forgotten affections, and recently renewed love for people who knew me when I was 17 and awkward and unaware.

And, fitting that Boston welcomed me home, at the end of this weekend, with the same radiant, cool blue sky that welcomed me here exactly one year ago, when I drove from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts with a car full of boxes and clothing and plants, with memories trailing behind me like the burnt fumes of my travels. I find no irony in the similarities—that sky, my heavily packed load, my exhaustion, my elation, my uncertainty tinged with such pure, heartfelt assurance that yes, I’d made the right decision, and this is now home. One year ago—one year later. The same drive—the brand-new arrival.

To write about all that’s changed in that year, all that I’ve learned and uncovered and understood and accepted, I could fill notebooks; I could write my first novel. But, the journey is chronicled, here and elsewhere, in my journals and to my friends and within myself, and I am satisfied with those safe keepings. If I needed reminders of when I stopped loving him, all I need to do is read that one letter I wrote to him, that one letter I’ll never send. If I need reassurances about making the right decision regarding work, my sister will quickly remind me of the myriad benefits of working for a large, corporate firm. If I need last whispers of forgiveness, my dear friend will soothe my worries. And, if I need motivation to move forward with my yoga practice, I have this blog, other blogs, new blog friends, new yogi acquaintances, all eager to share and learn and grow together.

Yes, my stories are not lost. This year is well documented. It did me good to come here; and I wrote the journey, plainly, passionately.

When I lived in Washington, DC, spring marked the cherry blossom festival and the start of the tourist season. And each year, each April, as soon as the weather warmed and the flowers blazed abloom, I’d begin my annual tradition of taking hours-long walks down Connecticut Avenue, up small residential sidestreets, weaving through Adams Morgan, down into Dupont, back up through Kalorama and then Woodley Park and then home. I’d watch joggers dash past me. I’d hear mothers cooing to their babies, fussy and agitated at the new heat and humidity in the air. I’d wander through the zoo, wishing I could free those animals, as trapped as I felt then. I’d walk and walk, until my ankles blistered, until I bled.

And each spring, my pen would scratch these words into my journal: ”Washington is reborn, and I with it.”

It’s funny to see this new season here, in Boston, to know this is home, I have arrived, finally, fully.

But, I am ready—for spring, for discoveries, for love, for fun, for the rebirth, of this city and those cherry blossoms and me.