Every year about this time I start feeling my California confusion. Though I’ve lived here for most of my life, my imprinting on the proper rhythm of the seasons came in the years I spent as a child and again as a young adult in the East and Midwest, where January is cold and the trees are bare. But even though the holiday wreath of bay leaves on our front door is still fresh and green, the spring bulbs next to the door are coming up fast, and the pear tree next door is already covered with white blossoms. Spring is here already, though this year, with a long warm fall, winter lasted less than a month.
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