Früh Ling

The word “Frühling” — German for spring — is old. 
Very old. 

Though not quite as old as the phenomenon of spring itself. 

When the Germans were still tinkering at the beginning of their language — roughly from the 8th century onward — they didn’t yet know they were already considered ancient. 
All their efforts to coax a language into complete, comprehensible sentences — those were already old. 

These people were shaping Old High German, yet still felt themselves to be pioneers under their ruler, the man who called himself Charlemagne. 

These fellows and women were not at the end of their Latin — they were, rather, quite at the beginning of it. 

Latin words, or fragments of them, were everyday currency. 
Which essentially means that a dead language called Latin was lending rhetorical support to an entire group of people known as the Old High Germans. 

True enough?

Well, the word “Frühling” did not fare particularly well at the word factory. 

The “Früh” — meaning “early” — is self-explanatory and keeps proving it. 

The “Ling,” however, is an appendage, a suffix with no explanatory reference whatsoever. 

Frühling, all the same. 
And yet the term has nested itself into many centres of the senses, where it mostly operates as a sleeper. 
Until the moment when so-called trigger points awaken. 
Then the new and early rousing is upon us. 

Lovers of all nations know what I mean.

The moment the first small green dots appear on the grey, seemingly lifeless branches, my spring says: “Hasch mich, ich bin der Frühling.” — roughly: “catch me if you can, I’m spring.” 

Truly an invitation that has no longer been illegal in Canada since 2018. 

The more daily this green thing transforms itself into leaves, the more intensely all the other senses are fired up. 
The smell of forest and meadow becomes enjoyable again. 

The animals shake every frosty experience out of their fur. 
And people, in the cool but spring-rolling sunshine, begin to smile again and take pleasure in the simple life. 

What did that blasted winter do to people in the preceding months? 

Spring as a season is also a promise that “everything will be new.” 

A somewhat daring claim to make in public. 
But spring is right. 

The Canadian geese are back to practising their grimly squinting at anyone who comes near their freshly hatched offspring. 

Squirrels are hunting for old treasures in the nut vault, and the birds are tweeting their beaks off as though that very thing would be banned by morning.

Oh yes, spring is loud, pungently fragrant, and good for people’s eyes and the corners of their mouths. 

Everything opens in joyful anticipation of what this season of new beginnings will bring.

And that is exactly what I ask myself, too. Almost every morning. While writing my morning splinter.