Erin O'Mara

Spring conjures one miracle on top of another. Life's groundswell happens beyond our senses, so it's in motion before we pick up the signs. I imagine a sorcerer, like Mickey Mouse in "Fantasia," conducting nature's orchestra.

It's not often that a young, 20-something woman gives thanks to God for granny panties, but on that day, I did. I'd just started my first-ever truly adult job — the one that would launch my career and social life and get me off my parents' payroll.

The most important day of the year rests in February. It's not a day honoring a president or the legacy of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. It's not National Science Day or even Valentine's Day.

OK, everyone, pull up a chair. Make sure to grab slippers and hot drinks in hand-warming mugs. Don't rush. We've got lots of time. When the sun rises after 7 a.m. and sets at 4 p.m., signals get confused and it can feel like midnight by dinnertime, but it's not.

I met Santa Claus. I don't mean I chatted with a mall Santa or gave coins to a well-meaning bell ringer. I mean, I met Santa — THE Santa. In fact, I see him all the time.

I'm writing this during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and you'll read it in a moment when thoughts turn to gratitude. The pink ribbons of breast cancer awareness, and the teal, green and pink ribbons of metastatic breast cancer awareness, have given way to bumpy gourds and mums.

At the very start, Maine held state elections in September, not November, and not in sync with federal elections and other states' schedules. Maine considered the timing of the harvest and the frigid winds of winter.

School's back in session, and if the elementary school curriculum has any resemblance to my experience, early fall means kids still have gym class outside and they're playing soccer before moving inside for the dreaded square dancing unit.

Cherry red tongues scream "Summer!" to me. My cousins and I used to collect returnable bottles, some we'd pick up from the side of the road in Gardiner and others our parents would donate to the cause, then head to the 7-Eleven down the street and turn litter into Slurpees.

I'd like a cannibal to know, with one look, that I'm a tasty treat. I'm not talking about being the first victim in a zombie apocalypse. Zombies have no discernment.