I love spring. I always have. I love the flowers, the sky, the sunshine. As a kid, I loved the arrival of tadpoles and ducklings. (Part of me still does). In England, I loved seeing adverts in the newspaper when it was lambing season and then seeing a frantic white cloud of baby sheep race from one end of a pasture to the other. Even city living didn’t quash my enthusiasm for all things spring; I simply had to look a little harder for it.

I love clearing away winter’s detritus from the garden and planting the season’s first vegetables. I love that ice has vanished from sidewalks and that I can walk – and sometimes run – without fear that a misstep will send me skidding. I even love the first one or two times I crawl on hands and knees pulling weeds, simply because it means that things are growing again.

I love spring even though it doesn’t love me back.

You might even call our dynamic acrimonious. In exchange for my decades of affection and appreciation, what spring gives me in return is simply cruel: seasonal allergies. My favorite time of year is the time when its hardest for me to be outside.

Take your pick of pollens: tree, grass, weed, mold. Basically, if there’s an airborne anything from a plant, my sinuses will detect it and go haywire.

Not that I let that stop me. I arm myself with antihistamines beginning in March. I keep neti pots, herbal teas, even the odd N95 mask at the ready. I look at spring through a window and calculate the pleasure of being outdoors against the physical discomfort that will likely result.

Despite the sneezing fits and ever-present tissues, I find myself drawn outside, eager to experience every moment that spring has to offer. Perhaps that’s the nature of love—it’s rarely perfect, and sometimes it’s even a little bit one-sided. If there’s anything that spring shows us, it’s that life moves in seasons. We need to take them as they come.