My office looks out on Columbus Circle. There stands a statue of Christopher Columbus, the great Italian navigator who discovered the American continent, atop a 70-foot pedestal literally surveying New York City — it's the point from which every distance in New York is measured. 

From my window I can see Christopher and, just beyond him, the southwest corner of Central Park. This past November, I watched marathoners turn into the park there for the final lap of a grueling race. On Thanksgiving Day, enormous balloons of Snoopy and Smurf bobbled down Broadway enroute to Macy’s, where they welcomed Santa and ushered in the holiday season.

Then came Winter 2010/11 — blasting its way into third place in New York City record books. Christopher stood alone on his pedestal as New Yorkers outdid themselves rushing into homes and apartments.

We pulled blankets over our heads. Teapots whistled and ginger nipped at our runny noses. We gulped down Theraflu and fell asleep to the snap, crackle and pop of rusty radiators. Steam clanged up the pipes, overstuffing the air with a fusty smell of old plumbing.

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.

This year March came in like a lion and went out like the cobra loosed from the city zoo whose escape garnered international attention. Winter wore on and on, as tough-hided New Yorkers longed to throw off coats and let toes wiggle free in flip-flops. We were crankier than ever.

Finally, in the second week of April, storm clouds dissolved. The sun was free to shine. Temperatures took off into the 80s. Overjoyed, we slung our topcoats over our arms.

Now Christopher was surrounded. A profusion of tulips — pink, yellow and red — burst into flower. Fountains lapped at his feet, sending a fine mist into the air that felt good against the skin.

It reminded me of a story I once heard Maharaji tell, about a tree he could see from his office window.

At the first sign of spring, pale green buds would appear on its branches. It made him think about the power of the will to live, I recall him saying. Once those buds started blooming they could not be stopped, not by any setback of lingering wintry weather.

I strolled the city’s streets, shedding first my jacket and then my sweater, nodding and smiling pleasantly to passersby who cheerily waved back. Our differences evaporated like fountain spray. We were all those green buds. With a little trust and a lot of patience, we survived another winter, and bloomed.

Then it occurred to me — spring, once more, had sprung.

Illustration by Sara Shaffer.