My friend Shel is a baseball fan. The other day she shared the spring training countdown: 38 days until pitchers and catchers report. Now it’s just 33 days.

Yesterday I was commiserating with another friend about this weekend’s predicted ice storm. “The forsythia will be budding in six weeks,” I said with as much optimism as I could offer.

“Crocus,” she said. “Snowdrops.”

Anticipation isn’t the same as wishing the days away. Anticipation is savoring what’s yet to be realized. The first pitch. The first flower. Knowing it’s coming.

It’s seasonal. It’s cyclical. It’s daily.

It’s why the most satisfying cup of coffee for me is the one I have to brew and wait for. Aroma wafting through the house. My empty cup waiting.

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