Early-ish March isn’t that much different from late February. On an early morning walk, I just wanted to stop time.

This house always grabs my attention, with its quiet simple beauty.

As I walked, I kept smelling something that I couldn’t identify. It was a good smell, and one that I hadn’t noticed before. It was on a route that I only take when my walking partner isn’t with me, chosen because it is shorter than our normal walks. That’s the way I trick myself into going alone.

This is the first time in 26 years that I’ve noticed ceanothus while walking. It is native to this area, and it isn’t very attractive in my book. But I wondered if that was the source of the good smell.

Indeed it was!

With flowering quince and daffodils going gung-ho (that’s a weird word—Chinese origins?) in my yard, along with mowed weeds that pass for a lawn in spring, I almost felt happy to be alive*.

*Fret not. That’s something my dad used to say in his buffoonish way of disseminating wisdom. I was thinking about him a lot in February because that was both his birth and death month.