Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2006.

How can I not feel blessed? It’s spring again and I’m around to see it!

The annual ritual begins: I sort through my closet, putting all the woolen jackets out of sight and reacquainting myself with last year’s warm-weather outfits: the flowered skirts, the short-sleeved blouses. (I sigh, as always. They aren’t as presentable as I’d hoped.)

I mark my calendar to remind myself to water the pots on the patio. No sense in letting the flowers die, as they so often do.

And I set the alarm to get myself up in time for a walk on the bike path, a habit I gave up almost a year ago. The reasons: a lack of motivation — my walking companion had injured her hip — and my addiction to an extra hour of sleep.

But I have rousted myself several times in the past few weeks, drawn by memories of the mountain, the sight of sun on the creek and the familiar shapes and faces of other walkers that have long been a part of my life.

Walking isn’t as easy as it used to be. I find myself plodding along even slower than usual, trying to keep smiling no matter how many people — young and old — overtake me. I concentrate on watching the geese and ducks that cavort and paddle on the sometimes muddy shore.

The acacias came and went before I returned to the path, but the poppies atone for the loss. Clumps of bright orange blooms have appeared out of nowhere, cramming the banks and emphasizing their return.

Last weekend, my friend Carol and I drove to Forestville for dinner. The landscape seemed vaster than ever, extending as far as the heart could reach. The cows on the dairy ranches munched contentedly on the abundant grass; even the mud fields by the barns looked rich and inviting.

As we drove on River Road west of Santa Rosa, the hills rose softly around us. Rows of grapevines curved in perfect precision upslope and down, seeming to proclaim — despite all the evidence — that the world is an orderly place.

At home, my garden has burst into bloom. White blossoms mass at the edge of my yard; azaleas and rhododendrons make blotches of pink; the planter box by the front steeps spilleth over.

Out front, buds have become leaves on the once-empty branches of the maples that march up my street.

Ah, spring. My heart knows the season is fleeting. I rush to take it all in.

Another day I headed to West Marin, wanting to see the wildflowers before they fade.

From Stinson Beach to Bolinas Lagoon, long stretches of roadside are a flower lover’s catalog of blossoms: dainty spots of yellow, blue, rose and white, sprinkled among the tall grasses.

Closer to home, in Terra Linda or by the Larkspur ferry, boring swatches of ice plant have become carpets of bright pink flowers.

Seasons came and went and I paid no attention. One followed the other, inevitably, and I knew that would always be so.

But now that I am older, now that I know the number of springs in each life is finite, I remind myself to focus on the wondrous procession.

This year’s rains were almost enough to turn me against winter, although even then I could applaud the coziness of the early dark, and the contentment of sitting in my warm and familiar living room, hearing the storms swirl outside.

Autumn is ever poignant, as the maples turn gaudy colors and resignedly shed their leaves. Summer is always welcome — even when the thermometer hits the hundreds — because we can eat outdoors, the grandkids can sozzle in the pool and we can pursue a tan at Stinson or relief from the heat in Muir Woods.

But most of all I love spring.

Life begins again, and it no longer matters that my step has slowed or that winter will inevitably come. The world’s delights are once more laid out before me, infinitely beautiful, promising to be there over and over for as long as I’m here and beyond.