For your listening pleasure:
Confession. I have a gentleman friend. I spent the morning reading in bed, we texted back and forth a few times when I asked him about the day since I had not gotten up even to make coffee or to use the bathroom yet. These are his words, printed with his permission:
“The world is grey and cloudy cool and a little snowy but I do not see the grey. I have seen the daffodils starting to protrude through the earth, reaching and stretching themselves to the glorious sun, wanting to grow strengthen and endure from the sullen winter blanket in which they were sleeping, spreading their beauty for all to see. So grey is not what I see. Color and beauty is and is remembered. ”
As I read those words I was reminded in some ways of my own writing. I see in some ways a reflection of my own emerging hope. Hope I dare not trust, hope I dare not believe in with all of my being, but hope that has me leaping out of bed singing and laughing like crazy. Crazy.
I run outside in my pajamas but my daffodils are still covered in snow. Instead I see the crocus as they are always diligent, always first. They are free from snow as they rest against the house, warmth on their backs while the sun warms them on the front. I imagine it is like a cat resting in a sunny spot by a wood stove. I find myself recording the new growth of spring, checking the passage of season, taking the time to note our grand and good mother, for the first time since I started blogging three years ago. I suppose almost to the day….but I deleted the blog, and cannot check my facts, or my stats or ever get back those years of words, and photos.
Perhaps I lie without meaning to. Yes I have taken some beautiful photos and noted the weather and the seasons, but today the ordinary caught my eye and captured a moment of my time as I zoomed in and focused. Yes there it is. Yes there IT is. It was a feeling that had left me, I practiced, acted and thought and did, but only now is that little gem crystalline and not muddy. I know it will pass, it always does, but for ths moment I see spring. I stop I listen I hear the music of the birds, an oriole cries out in the morning, and the chicadee sings a new song, two doves coo as they rise up from the bird seed cluttered ground. The dog stops and jumps in place. Ah but with spring, with the crocus comes the neglected piles of shit that got left in my slumber, in my relentless quest to avoid the daily practice required to have a clean bare slate on which to plant the herbs and flowers that will grow. I have slumbered here, in the snow. Waiting to spread this beauty and color, but still so much shit.
Oh isn’t this life grand? All of it? The crocus, the dead leaves, the melting black snow, the bird song, the shit, the dead grass. All of it.