March. It comes every year. It’s the month when you suddenly notice that confident mature counsellors have taken the place of last September’s baby counsellors. They have learned how to listen compassionately to sad stories. They have learned to let go when things aren’t working. Best of all, they have learned to celebrate achievements—really celebrate them—recognizing the true value of small things.
I tell them in September that it will be this way in March, aware that they don’t believe me, and even I am doubting it. It’s hard to picture, harder than picturing outdoor petunias at Christmas. Nevertheless you can count on it. It’s as predictable as Reading Week and term paper stress.
I love to watch it happen. It’s my early sign of spring.
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