The Lilacs Below My Childhood Window

A little story to commemorate my favorite mini season.

Every spring there’s a refrain that plays through my head like an unavoidable yet familiar scratch on a favorite record: Watching the world bloom again never gets old. It’s a line I thought of years ago on an early spring walk after a particularly long and gnarly winter that felt like it would never release its grip. And every year, that same thought comes back around as I witness the fragrant blooms make their grand entrance on a stage that has been bare and dormant for too long. I am an eager spectator, watching every move with bated breath, relishing the front row seat I get to have for this incredible show.

Ok, ok. In less poetic terms, I’m just thrilled that it’s spring! Who else?

I like to think there are thousands of mini seasons within spring, when each plant buds, flowers (if they do), and then leafs out—all at different cadences. In the Pacific Northwest, the mini “seasons” I notice most are those of the daffodils, tulips, cherry blossoms, magnolias, bluebells, azaleas, Japanese maples, and my most favorite of all: lilacs.

I mean…does it get any better than this?!

My love of lilacs goes back decades. When I was growing up in the Midwest, my family used to sleep with our windows open in the spring and early summer. The window in my room was at the head of my twin bed, and the top of my pillow touched the bottom of the windowsill. In other words, I slept about 3 inches from the window screen. Most nights, I fell asleep and woke up to a light breeze whispering across my forehead and the steady rhythm of the cicadas buzzing. I always slept well then.

But the best nights of sleep were the ones when the lavender-colored lilac bushes below my window were blooming. Their sweet, delicate scent made their way lazily through the window screen, especially strong when the sun had been out that day. I have so many memories of waking up during the night, inhaling that scent like my life depended on it, and rolling back over to sleep. For two weeks every spring (if the blooms even lasted that long), I started and ended my days with the aroma of lilacs. I couldn’t get enough. I was always sad when their blooming season ended, and when, not long after, we shut the windows and turned on the AC to beat the sticky summer humidity.

When I grew up and eventually moved out, I longed for that window, which I would look out of every night before I went to sleep. But most of all, I longed for that spring breeze filled with the scent of lilacs. How would I mark spring without it?

So maybe it’s no surprise that every year, I watch like a hawk for the first sign of lilacs.

A week or so ago, after a string of particularly warm and sunny days, I found that our neighbor’s lilacs were in full bloom. I’m pretty sure I jumped for joy, clapping my hands as I stood up on my tiptoes to bury my nose in hundreds of little flowers. Ahhhhhhh. Aside from their beautiful appearance—ranging from white to lavender to dark purple flowers—their smell instantly transports me back to my childhood bedroom, where the years zoomed by, except for every spring, when the lilacs bloomed and time seemed to stop, just for a little.

I’m reminded of so many memories when I smell lilacs, which is probably why I spend so much time seeking them out. It feels like entering a portal back to an innocent and joyful part of my childhood. It’s nostalgia in its most pleasant form.

Those lilac bushes below my childhood bedroom window are dead now. I’m not sure why; my parents aren’t either. But they had a great, long life. And my parents no longer sleep with the windows open because of bad allergies and an influx of box elder bugs (iykyk) in recent years. So the window has shut, quite literally, on that particular experience.

These days, when I visit home (what an oxymoronic phrase, “visit home”), I sleep in my same childhood bed, with the same window above my head, remembering and missing that amazing springtime feeling. And I think about how that’s just one of many experiences that made me fall in love with nature—and with the ways it continues to bring me back to myself, again and again.

I’m wishing you lots of blooms this season—flowers or otherwise 💐

Until next time,

Elizabeth