Spring is here, at last. According to my definition, of course. Spring could be defined in different ways.
It could be loosely defined according to the calendar: March 21st (or March 20th in leap years) would be the beginning of spring.
More technically speaking, it begins at the vernal equinox where the length of day and night is equal and that marks the beginning of spring. So, when Earth reaches that exact position in its yearlong travel around the Sun, it denotes spring. And in Iran (and neighboring countries influenced by Persian culture), that's the exact moment to celebrate the spring and the New Year.
In less technical terms, it's a time when earth undergoes rebirth after death, sleep or hibernation (whatever way you prefer to look at it). Days become sunnier (which is not quite the case in northern locations like Ohio), trees blossom, the earth lushes. And all sort of poetic definitions in that line.
But I have my own definition of spring. And without that, spring is meaningless to me. And that's what happened last night. The birds resumed their nightly conference after a long recess. And when I heard their heated conversation, I realized what I actually missed over my gloomy wintry nights of last months.
Over my trips to Nicosia, I spent my entire days, from early morning to late night, surveying the city on foot. And I have very good memories from the places I visited. But the most vivid memory that I have from my time there, is waking up in the morning by the sound of mourning doves. Ironically, as my hotel was not too far away from the so-called Green Line, it reminded me that I was in a divided city. And it also reminded me of all the sad memories of war and displacements that ensue any war, anywhere; especially, given my visits to both sides of the line, watching dilapidated buildings that were once full of life and happiness. But still, mourning doves refresh all the good memories I had over my days and nights in the beautiful city. And whenever I think of my deepest memories from Nicosia, I think of mourning doves. It's a bitter-sweet remembrance.
And whenever I wanna think of my late grandfather's home, I remember his geese and the different ways they talked depending on their mood and whom they addressed. Nevertheless, my mornings there began with geese. And whenever, I hear geese flying over my head here, I immediately think of my grandfather and all the good memories I had at his house over my summer visits (although the geese here don't speak in Persian).
And while in Tehran, whenever I got mad of the noise of my wild-partying neighbors late night, I biked to Taleghani metropark (one of my most favorite places to hang out in the crowded megacity). And there, I could relax listening to the joyful noise of the birds' orchestra (which sounded much better than the noise my neighbors made). To me, Taleghani metropark was equivalent to listening to birds nocturnes or serenades with frogs and crickets sharing their cadenza and counterpoint from time to time.
By the same token, my nights at Toledo were meaningful when the birds' conference was in session. Although I have to complain they sometimes begin their conference too early in the morning, I'm still happy hearing them. And there's more; seagulls have reappeared in the parking lot across from the Rocket Hall. They don't treat each other in a very friendly way, but still, it's fun to watch them shout "Mine, Mine" (I love that line from Finding Nemo). And although we began this New Year with five inches of snow (and it's snowing heavily right now), for me, spring has officially begun.
It could be loosely defined according to the calendar: March 21st (or March 20th in leap years) would be the beginning of spring.
More technically speaking, it begins at the vernal equinox where the length of day and night is equal and that marks the beginning of spring. So, when Earth reaches that exact position in its yearlong travel around the Sun, it denotes spring. And in Iran (and neighboring countries influenced by Persian culture), that's the exact moment to celebrate the spring and the New Year.
In less technical terms, it's a time when earth undergoes rebirth after death, sleep or hibernation (whatever way you prefer to look at it). Days become sunnier (which is not quite the case in northern locations like Ohio), trees blossom, the earth lushes. And all sort of poetic definitions in that line.
But I have my own definition of spring. And without that, spring is meaningless to me. And that's what happened last night. The birds resumed their nightly conference after a long recess. And when I heard their heated conversation, I realized what I actually missed over my gloomy wintry nights of last months.
Over my trips to Nicosia, I spent my entire days, from early morning to late night, surveying the city on foot. And I have very good memories from the places I visited. But the most vivid memory that I have from my time there, is waking up in the morning by the sound of mourning doves. Ironically, as my hotel was not too far away from the so-called Green Line, it reminded me that I was in a divided city. And it also reminded me of all the sad memories of war and displacements that ensue any war, anywhere; especially, given my visits to both sides of the line, watching dilapidated buildings that were once full of life and happiness. But still, mourning doves refresh all the good memories I had over my days and nights in the beautiful city. And whenever I think of my deepest memories from Nicosia, I think of mourning doves. It's a bitter-sweet remembrance.
And whenever I wanna think of my late grandfather's home, I remember his geese and the different ways they talked depending on their mood and whom they addressed. Nevertheless, my mornings there began with geese. And whenever, I hear geese flying over my head here, I immediately think of my grandfather and all the good memories I had at his house over my summer visits (although the geese here don't speak in Persian).
And while in Tehran, whenever I got mad of the noise of my wild-partying neighbors late night, I biked to Taleghani metropark (one of my most favorite places to hang out in the crowded megacity). And there, I could relax listening to the joyful noise of the birds' orchestra (which sounded much better than the noise my neighbors made). To me, Taleghani metropark was equivalent to listening to birds nocturnes or serenades with frogs and crickets sharing their cadenza and counterpoint from time to time.
By the same token, my nights at Toledo were meaningful when the birds' conference was in session. Although I have to complain they sometimes begin their conference too early in the morning, I'm still happy hearing them. And there's more; seagulls have reappeared in the parking lot across from the Rocket Hall. They don't treat each other in a very friendly way, but still, it's fun to watch them shout "Mine, Mine" (I love that line from Finding Nemo). And although we began this New Year with five inches of snow (and it's snowing heavily right now), for me, spring has officially begun.
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