May is a time of waiting. Nature awaits its awakening, the snow waits to melt, and the river awaits liberation from the ice. I, surprisingly enough, find myself waiting quite a lot for summer and warmth. The awakening of plants and summer nights. Warm winds and the rustling of tree leaves. The freedom of summer, travels, and new adventures.

May is quiet in the north. If you look closely at the birches, you can see the tiniest buds beginning to form, which, according to what I've heard, can burst into full glory in just one day, but they first need some proper warmth from the sun. The visitors of early spring, travelers and tourists, have vanished to the warmth of the south. The services, restaurants, and tourism businesses aimed at them close their doors before the summer season opens around Midsummer.

Everyone is waiting.

The first migratory birds have arrived. A pair of swans has been calling out along the riverbank for a few weeks now. I managed to capture the pair on video as they passed by my shore for the first time. Sometimes a photographer gets lucky—I happened to be at the water's edge at just the right moment. The same happened when a pair of reindeer crossed the river not far from my bank. That, too, is on video.

The sun has opened up the first patches of ice right by the shore. One evening, Papu barked loudly outside toward the riverbank. He had chased away a solitary swan that had settled in the open water, which marched away fearlessly yet indignantly across the ice. Taps taps taps, its webbed feet splashed in the watery snow as it quietly muttered and swayed away to rest. Papu thought he had done a good job driving off the ruler of the riverbank. I would have gladly let the swan inhabit my shore.

At times, the sun warms up enough that I can sit outside without a jacket or a beanie. I often roll out in the evenings to the area between the cabin and the river, which has been freed from snow and is now dry, to enjoy the spring evenings. I close my eyes and listen to the evening arias of the birds. A solitary chaffinch has been inhabiting the yard for a few weeks now. It flits from tree to tree, chirping its beautiful melody. So far, no one has responded to it. Perhaps it’s just too early to be out. The chaffinch feels familiar, like the spirit of my own forest, whose song I hear through the chimney first thing in the morning when I wake up.

The melting snow brings with it wet ground, clay, and mud. My yard is a mix of brown clay and reddish sandy loam. Rubber boots are a daily essential. The driveway is dotted with muddy puddles, and my car gets a coating of mud every time I drive over it.

Perhaps my patience is being tested right now, but time feels long. Winter and its activities are already over, yet summer is not here yet. As I've mentioned before, for some reason, the almost constant light is tiring, and its abundance suddenly feels strange. My mind no longer knows how to read the time based on the light. It’s equally bright all the time and hasn’t yet acquired the gentle glow of summer; at times, it even feels harsh.

I prefer to enjoy the light right after sunrise or only after the sun has set in the evening. If I want to see both, my sleep is significantly reduced—since the sun rises shortly after three in the morning and sets only at eleven in the evening.

The time of waiting is long. Fortunately, I’ll gain some extra energy in my days when I pick up my new van this coming weekend (the build of the previous van didn’t go quite as I had hoped), and I’ll start decorating it for summer travels. More on that later; for now, as the rain patters on the cabin roof, I’ll light the fireplace and delve into a book. Summer is already right at the door.