February is not consistent in Virginia. One week has a 68 degree day, and the next week has snow or ice storms. But still spring is coming. The traffic at our bird feeder gets louder every morning. Bulbs are pushing through the mulch towards the tiny glimmer of sun. Heavy rains keep coming, leaving puddles and mud everywhere.

Except for California, almost every state seems to have some variation of the, “if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” Although we know February is supposed to be cold here, the glimpses of warmth get us excited. Sixty degrees and someone puts on shorts and flip flops.

I am dreaming of hot summer days, even though I know I tend to wilt in the heat. I begin to dream of my garden, even though the battle of the weeds is constant and fierce. It’s easy to be nostalgic and wistful for the season it’s not.

Last summer, we were determined to enjoy the weather while it lasted. We took road trips to places we’d never been before. We went to the beach. We went to the mountains. We swam and took walks in the evening when the air had cooled. I’m looking forward to that again, even thought I know, in the middle of July, I will pine for sweaters, cozy blankets and hot chocolate. It’s only natural.