I wake. First day of spring…time to move the furniture around.
What? says my husband, who by now, after nearly 30 years of navigating my quirks, should be used to enduring my restless furniture syndrome, but who still stumbles over obstacles every time the syndrome grips me.
Groan, moans my dog, who rushes to hide behind whatever chair or couch she thinks is safe. It’s not.
What is it that rises with an such intense craving—the turning of the seasons, new energy sources sprouting out of the softening ground, new cloud shapes, sunlight entering the house at new and brighter angles, the memory of a stylish new Easter outfit, with hat?
Something about renewal, waking up after a winter’s hibernation, birds chirping a joyful accompaniment. Life is good.
I needed more input. I Googled “spring fancies” and all that came up was the line of poetry by Alfred Lord Tennyson: “In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” So is this aberration I go through all about love? Love of home, perhaps, of nest feathering and placing these fine antiques where the sun will light them up?
Aha! Spring fever. The ubiquitous Wikipedia has turned up a definition: “It refers to an increase in energy, vitality and particularly sexual appetite…”
Okay, so with regard to the first two increases, I’ve got them. I’ve been known to muscle all the furniture in the house into alternate configurations because of some nebulous idea I’ve had.
Often when I stand back and survey the results, panting slightly because I did it all in the space of minutes, I see that this is not quite the arrangement I had imagined. It’s like catching a leprechaun. Oh, there it is, over there. Rustle and hustle and move the load again, uncover the secret.
Could it be my astrological sign? Libra. Balance, looking for the perfect symbiosis of furniture, nest, love. Or it could be far simpler: a new beginning.
Once the furniture is arranged, there is plenty of energy and vitality left to feed the other appetite. But that’s another story.