Six years ago, I saw Spring for the first time

Recently my girlfriend said to me, ‘It’s lovely outside’, so outside I went. I’ve never been one to need an excuse to walk, never been one who walks just to hit 10k steps or as a way of getting from A to B. Always loved to wander, and ponder and stroll. Arriving in my favourite park, I started to notice little signs of Spring. And I decided to photograph every one I could find. Things that feel like Spring, not just the flowers.

Crocus flowers and warm tree bark

I became increasingly determined to find as many flowers in bloom as I could. I considered re-tracing my steps to pass the primroses again, regretted not capturing a photo of that squirrel or that small bird or the ducks. Collecting, as always.

Me and Spring have had a difficult relationship, it’s strange to say it now, perhaps I’m almost embarrassed, but I used to hate Spring. I dreaded it. Feeling the cold of winter slip away and the gradual shedding of layers.

It’s common, for people who are depressed, to hate Spring - something about the stark joy and life that feels so alienating and isolating. The longer days, the optimism, the energy boost that many people feel, it all felt very detached from my reality. I felt exposed, my lack of life, my lack of energy, my lack of colour. My lack of joy; at the fluffy ducklings and at buds on lawns or branches. I knew I was expected to feel excited and happy, yet the feeling never came.

Snowdrops, cloudless sky and daffodil shoots

I remember the first time I saw Spring, I mean, really saw it, and that was six years ago. I took photos of every single flower that I saw. I was in awe of the variation, the colours, the petals, the smells. I kept asking everyone - had Spring ever been this bright? Did it always have so many flowers? Did it always seem this content? They eyed me strangely and offered a comforting ‘well, maybe it is a bit brighter this year...’

I always longed for dark cosy evenings and dramatic falling leaves and wrapping up in layers, walking through heavy downpours with a sense of anonymity because no one will look you in the eye. But here I was, collecting photos like a treasure hunt for Springtime.

There were many roses, wild ones, my favourite kind. All colours and I smelt every one that called to me. There were rhododendron blooms, large and vivid. There was shrubs of rosemary and lavender and behind a small row of terraced houses led to the allotments that I pined after.

Flowers

The park near me was a magical place, as parks near me often are. It had a strange dream-like quality to it, as though in an alternate realm that I’ve never quite been able to describe. It was on a hill, overlooking woodland (the busy road cutting through it obscured by trees), and held together with more trees. The path out of depression isn’t obvious, there isn’t a route that’s easy to take, the colours don’t materialise instantly, the world gradually gains more saturation. The saturation had been creeping into my vision, ever so subtly. It started at grey and then became silver. I was stood on a bridge, overlooking water and ice and my friends threw stones onto the frozen parts. ‘Everything is silver’ I repeated. That was the beginning. The colours entered so gingerly that they were imperceptible, until that bloom. It took years, I’ll be honest. And if you’re waiting in those years I can promise you that it is so worth the wait.

The park is the first place I put my hearing aids in and stood under a huge tree, and I listening to the rain cascading through the branches around me in a way I had, quite literally, never heard before in my life. I’d observed the sky over the leaves and sat on green grass eating strawberries and bread. I’d ambled passed the tennis pitches reminding myself to make use of the free courts (I think I did, once). The park and me, had been through many seasons. And this was our first Spring. Our first Spring, which turned out, to be my first Spring too.