survived the month of murders

March is the last month of sleep for growing things, says my mother. She always buys a sack of good soil in March and replants all her many potted plants. In April, it's too late, because by then the plants have woken from their winter sleep and started their growing season. And they don't like to be disturbed, pulled up by the roots and shoved into a new pot with new soil, once they have started growing. Or so she claims.

March here at 63 degrees North is a grey and wet affair. The crystal beauty of winter ruined, like a wedding dress that's been dragged through mud. Spring still hesitating behind the corner.

Like my mother's plants, I am half asleep, weary after a long winter, too sluggish to hope for the sun. I survive, barely. My history teacher in school once told me that March is the month of murders and I can see why.

It always seems to happen in March. Half dead, I'm pulled up by the roots and shoved into something new, if only a new way of thinking. It always hurts, no matter how absolutely essential it is for my survival. After a desperate struggle to adjust, I slowly start to notice the spring sun, the world turns on its hinges and my growing season has arrived.

I realise it's more or less too late to replant my own potted plants by now. I go out and buy some shockingly yellow daffodils.