Saturday dawned with a light frost on the ground reminding me that, though I put out my bundle of forsythia branches and my ceramic birds on Thursday when the calendar turned to March, it is not quite spring. Though my plans for the day are to go to a tea room for lunch where I will inevitably eat a fruity salad and drink slow-brewed herbal tea before perusing the pretties at the shop’s Spring Open House, I will likely find myself wrapped in my fuzzy robe by the fire this evening. Transitional seasons. Transitional times in life. We wish for them to pass too often, I think, without fully appreciating the range of experiences they have to offer.