At some threshold the tipping point arrives, that point when enough evidence presents itself that winter is indeed over and spring cannot be denied any longer. Global warming, the familiar and desired kind, finally melts the glacial-like remnants on one’s own property.

Rather than late March, the official calendar declaration of spring might as well fall on April 1. Though equally premature, it would find us even more anxious to be fooled into believing that spring was beginning and summer will surely follow, only to be met with weather no different from that which preceded it.

Nothing is more disheartening than early spring checkout-line banter still venting about how unrelentingly oppressive living in snow country can be. Will there be no end? Why do we, why does anyone, choose to live here?

Unlike so many fellow New Englanders, I find winter quite bearable, an inevitable and welcome respite. Snow is nature’s way of saying slow down. Chill out. That we refuse to take that advice is not a fault of winter’s nature, but ours.

For me, winter’s impositions are no worse than other seasons. Time to put away the implements of yardwork and bring out the shovel. Each season has its demands. Each has its merits. I enjoy each season’s uniqueness. I have no idea what English weather is like, but New England’s identity is inseparable from four seasons. For me, four seasons, distinct and clearly defined, celebrate “ vive la difference.” It’s “The Way Life Should Be.”

I grew up in the top of the Atlantic states, close in many meteorological ways to New England. Close, but no cigar. Christmas there, even back in the day, was never a sure bet to be even close to white. The only guarantee of such was to catch the holiday showing of Hollywood’s Bing Crosby Vermont version.

Snow’s romance persists despite so many fickle admirers’ love-hate relationship. To live in snow country and be spared snow- filled holidays finds few supporters. Even the most ardent snow complainer will give it a holiday for the holidays. Still, that mission accomplished, most would agree that spring should start January 2nd.

Our nature is that we love complaining about the weather. Maybe it’s because it’s something we have no control over, a complaint that can’t demand our circumspection of responsibility. We still like to believe that.

Now, weather, more than ever, regional or otherwise, is anyone’s guess. I can’t remember snow on the Maine coast lasting so far into April as it has this year. Everything seems late in arriving. The grass is only just starting to green.

Then again, maybe it’s always nearly this way. Maybe everything is relatively on schedule, as usual, and past seasonal changes are only disremembered, or imagined differently. Climate denial can afflict all of us to some degree.

It used to be that such perceived differences in what one expected as normal signs of seasonal landmarks, guiding us through the year, were insignificant commentary and accepted variations upon an otherwise predictable natural cycle. Some years were exceptional, but each felt reasonably enough like, all in all, all was well with the world. Now, every fluctuation is read as globally significant.

Such environmental paranoia heightens why spring, greatly anticipated and broadly rejoiced, is so reassuring when it finally does arrive, however late it actually is or just thought to be. Spring is all about an overt promise of new growth and renewal. It suggests that the world is not completely broken. Yet.

There are the crocuses pushing up through what was ground deeply, endlessly frozen. Reports of daffodils follow. Tulips. Tiger lilies. Buds start to show life. Shoots aim for the sun. Perennial weeds, giving a shout-out, flaunting their prowess, already start taking over.

Despite winter’s harsh treatment, the earth thaws and all its activities restart. Survival continues anew, readying for equally hard passage through the dog days of summer. Mother nature is a hard parent.

Nature doesn’t complain. It adapts and endures. Or, it doesn’t. Part of spring is waiting to see which among the landscape will return. Even slight climate change, temporarily severe cold or winter wind, takes its toll. Those that do reappear expect no congratulations, but we should all applaud that tenacity, its most essential importance, its gifts of hope, bounty, beauty and continuance.

April 22 was Earth Day, observing the gravity of environmental concern and simply taking time to honor nature itself. Maybe it was noticed by those with a politically correct calendar, or given a special Google search engine spotlight du jour. Noticed maybe, ignored likely.

Each day should be a continuance of Earth day. Each day, each of us needs to connect with its message. It might well be our survival.

Get out into nature. Plant a seed. Plant several. Nurture yourself by growing something, if just for, or totally because of, its attractiveness alone. Even if that activity isn’t rigorously organic, or ecologically perfect in its practice, it is a beginning towards such awareness.

Recalibrate your own nature with that of the entirety of the planet, peopled and non-peopled.

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Gary Anderson lives in Bath.