This is how you know spring has arrived in our house – not by the calendar, not by the pollen count, not even by the way the light lingers longer in the evening like it has nowhere else to be – but by Winnie Lew standing at the back door, sneezing like a tiny, indignant freight train.

Winnie Lew does not believe in subtlety. If there is pollen in the air, she will find it, inhale it deeply, cover her fur in it, and then protest as though the entire ecosystem were a personal affront.

“Achoo!” she declares, which in dog language loosely translates to: I did not sign up for this floral nonsense.

Meanwhile, I am inside, conducting what I have generously decided to call “spring cleaning,” which is mostly me walking from room to room holding a trash bag and getting distracted by things I forgot I owned.

There is something about spring that makes you think you are capable of becoming a different person. A person who folds fitted sheets. A person who knows where the batteries are. A person who doesn’t have a mysterious drawer full of rubber bands, expired coupons, and one lonely birthday candle shaped like the number seven.

Spring whispers, You could start fresh. Winnie Lew hears this message and responds by rolling in something unspeakable in the yard. We are not having the same experience.

I start with the closets. This is a mistake. Closets are time capsules of former selves – versions of me who believed I might someday wear linen pants regularly, or take up yoga with any degree of commitment, or attend events that required something described as “business casual.”

Winnie Lew supervises from the doorway, shedding. Not just a little shedding. Not seasonal shedding. This is an
act of generosity. Winnie Lew is trying to give the house more of herself.

Every clergy shirt I own now has a soft halo of Winnie Lew. Every sock has joined a support group. I hold up a sweater I haven’t worn in three years. Winnie Lew sneezes on it.

“That feels like a sign,” I say. “Achoo,” Winnie Lew replies, which I take as confirmation. Spring cleaning, I have decided, is less about cleaning and more about negotiating with your past. Do I still need this? Will I ever use that? Why do I own six nearly identical tote bags?

Winnie Lew does not struggle with these questions. Winnie Lew values only what she needs: one beloved toy that used to be a Yeti but now resembles abstract art, a food bowl, two water bowls, and an unwavering belief that she deserves whatever I am eating.

While I am sorting through stacks of paper – some important, most not – Winnie Lew is stationed at my feet, scratching. Not delicately. Not thoughtfully. But with the kind of determination usually reserved
for people trying to break through drywall.

Allergies have come for her. Her ears itch. Her paws itch. The very concept of being alive seems to itch.

I try to help. There are wipes. There are special shampoos that smell of red berries and champagne. There are conversations with the vet that involve words like “seasonal triggers,” “environmental factors,”
and “allergy shots.”

Winnie Lew hears all this and concludes: The grass is clearly the enemy. And yet she continues to fling herself into it with reckless joy.

There is something deeply admirable about a creature who refuses to avoid the thing that makes her sneeze. If Winnie Lew were human, she would absolutely live in a house full of freshly cut flowers while
insisting she “barely notices” her allergies.

Back inside, I attempt to vacuum. This is an optimistic endeavor. The vacuum and Winnie Lew have a complicated relationship. She does not fear it. She does not respect it. She believes it is a loud, unnecessary rival that has somehow been allowed to live in her house.

As soon as I turn it on, Winnie Lew begins a campaign of moral opposition. She barks. She circles. She attempts to herd it. The
vacuum continues, unimpressed.

I try to explain that the vacuum is helping. That it is removing the very fur she has so generously distributed. That this is, in fact, a team effort. Winnie Lew is unconvinced. “Achoo!” she adds, for emphasis.

By mid-afternoon, I have made a pile. Every spring cleaning effort results in a pile. This pile represents decisions deferred. I will deal with it later, I tell myself, which is the lie at the heart of all piles.

Winnie Lew inspects the pile. She sits on it. This, apparently, is her contribution. We take a break. Spring cleaning, like all ambitious projects, requires snacks. I sit on the couch with a glass of something cold.

Winnie Lew sits beside me, her head resting heavily on my leg, her eyes full of hope and quiet accusation. You would think I had never fed her. You would think she had been wandering the wilderness, sustained only by memory and grit.

I offer her a small bite of my oatmeal cookie. She accepts it with the solemn gratitude of someone receiving a sacred offering. Then she sneezes. “Achoo.”Spring.

There is a moment, in the middle of all this – between the vacuuming and the sorting and the sneezing – when the light hits just right. It comes through the windows, softened by whatever pollen is currently
staging a takeover outside, and everything looks… gentler.

The pile doesn’t seem so urgent. The dust motes look almost intentional. Winnie Lew has stopped scratching for exactly thirty seconds and is now asleep, her paws twitching as she dreams of something important, probably involving squirrels or the philosophical implications of cheese.

And I realize that spring cleaning is not really about achieving some impossible standard of order. It is not about becoming the kind of person who has matching hangers and labeled bins.

It is about making space. Not just in the closets, but in the rhythm of the days. Space for open windows. Space for longer walks. Space for sitting on the couch with a dog who smells faintly of red
berries and champagne and grass and whatever she rolled in earlier, and deciding that this – this slightly chaotic, slightly dusty, deeply lived-in moment – is good enough.

Winnie Lew wakes up, stretches, and immediately scratches again.

Progress is not linear. I look at the pile. I look at the vacuum. I look at Winnie Lew , who is now staring at me as if to say, We could go
outside again. We could. We probably will. There will be more pollen. More sneezing. More fur.

There will also be that soft evening light, and the way the air feels like it is trying something new. Spring does not ask for perfection. It just shows up, messy and beautiful and a little bit irritating, and invites you to do the same.

“Achoo,” says Winnie Lew.

Amen.

Meet The Author

Amy George is an Episcopal priest in Selma, Alabama, where she shares an office with her volunteer pastoral care assistant, Winnie Lew. When not doing God’s work, you can find Amy doing Dog’s work–vacuuming a never ending supply of dog hair, chauffeuring Winnie Lew, and being the provider of endless dog treats. Amy feels blessed to have no fear of ever being attacked by squirrels, UPS delivery people, or small lizards.