The first day of spring always shows up like a half-reliable friend—late, a little sloppy, but carrying just enough sunshine to make you forgive everything. The calendar says rebirth. The air says, “maybe.” And me? I’m standing on a back porch in a hoodie that’s too optimistic for winter but not nearly optimistic enough for spring, holding a joint like it’s a ceremonial object.
Because it kind of is.
I don’t just smoke weed on the first day of spring. I christen the season with it.
There’s a specific vibe to that first inhale. The air is still cold enough to bite, but underneath it there’s this soft, damp smell of thawing earth—mud, dead leaves, and the faint suggestion that something green is about to start making bad decisions again. I light up, and suddenly I’m part of the process.
The smoke drifts out slow, like it also just woke up from a long winter nap. It hangs there, suspended between seasons, unsure if it should rise or just vibe for a minute. You watch it like it owes you money.
Somewhere, a bird is screaming like it just discovered its own voice. Not singing—screaming. Spring birds don’t sing. They announce. Loudly. Repeatedly. With no regard for my internal monologue, which, at this point, has already started to wander.
I start thinking about winter. Not in a poetic way. In a “how did I survive eating like that and moving this little?” kind of way. There’s a strange pride in it. I made it through. Me and my questionable habits. Me and my late-night snacks. Me and the darkness that hit at 4:30 PM like a personal insult.
And now here I am, standing in daylight that stretches just a little longer, holding a lit joint like a flag planted in new territory.
There’s a shift that happens about halfway through. The kind that sneaks up on you. One minute you’re just cold and mildly introspective, the next you’re deeply invested in the texture of sunlight. It’s different now. Warmer, yeah, but also…thicker? Like it has weight to it. Like you could almost grab it and fold it over your shoulders.
I start noticing everything. The way the snow didn’t leave so much as it retreated, leaving behind evidence. The grass looks confused. The trees look like they’re considering trying again but aren’t fully committed. There’s a puddle nearby that has no business existing, and yet it feels important. Symbolic, even. You don’t know of what, exactly—but you respect it.
The joint gets shorter. Time gets weird. My thoughts start connecting in ways that feel profound but would probably fall apart under basic questioning. Doesn’t matter. Right now, they’re solid. Gospel, even.
Spring, I’ve realized, isn’t about dramatic change. It’s about subtle permission. Permission to start again, but quietly. No big announcements. No “new year, new me” nonsense. Just a small internal nod: yeah, I can try this again.
I take one last hit, hold it a second longer than necessary, and exhale into air that’s no longer entirely hostile. The smoke disappears faster now. Less hesitation. More purpose.
Somewhere in the distance, another bird loses its mind.
I flick the roach, step back inside for a second, then immediately came back out. Too soon. It’s too soon to leave it. Winter had its time. This—this weird, muddy, slightly uncomfortable beginning—is mine now.
And honestly? It smells a lot better than February.
Keep it weird,
