“The trumpets of spring are here again, sending out their clarion call. Daffodils can hardly be blamed for being overt, & noisy and reliable. It’s the job they’ve been given at a most temperamental juncture, late winter dragging into April, along with coltsfoot, certain primrose, bloodroot, and many tinier spring beauties. It seems important to remember that each form of self expression has its time to shine. Not needed during summer, or fall, but destined to announce the wakening soil, before it’s truly warm, or comfortable, or stable. We rely on its dependable performance, to raise our spirits, while other beings may still walk in the dark. Up here in the mountains, our season for flowers is shorter, comes later, and is possibly more delicately poised between the cusp of life and death, as are we. I treasure every poignant moment as testimony to my having passed through yet another portal of struggle towards illumination. The sun is not a bot. Perhaps not what we’ve been told it is, but, none-the-less, life here revolves around it. Where it is, where it is not, gives shape to my every day. Within an hour of its rising, a friend my drop in for coffee, tell me dream she’s had, & it’s lingering message, contemplated between sips. Within two hours of its rising, I can gauge dew, & frost, and ponder its clarity or lack thereof, and set a course for my day accordingly. Depending on whether the work ahead lies on a north facing slope, or adjacent a south facing meadow, this will determine my tool kit, for renewal, as well as damage control. My gardening partner, still recovering from a recent back injury, is missed but I try to imagine her healing, using river cold, methodical movements around her homestead, and the joy of what she has created, hard won, over many long years. We are all works in progress, at various staging plateaus, full of dreams and longing, no matter how depressed, impaired or anxious we may feel, due to current affairs. This too, shall pass. There is no point in feeling guilty, for the things we couldn’t do better. Surveying a garden now, as a cloud moves slightly to block the sun, as chill wafts against skin, and tenderness contracts, and loneliness prevails, well ... this is built in, no matter how many wonderful things have been witnessed, or created through art and craft. Our existence, even in safety, even within the embrace of community, or a solid marriage, remains ragged, and incomplete. What we can do here is held in that imperfect vessel, at least for a while, for us to do with, what we will. So the tender hearts of plants, remind us. The rescue dogs, the stunning tulips bought at Trader Joes, the lopsided tree trunks, and mushrooms, and moss. It’s why a smile is so pivotal, and can make a day feel a hundred times better. I admit to using my smile, a hundred times a day. When I can’t talk, when I can’t verbalize, when my energy’s low or conflicted, with things sit so far under the surface, that I would know how to explain it. It’s always good to get out, if you can, and insert yourself into the fray of humanity. Regardless of how much you feel you are falling short, or are disappointed by others. I expect I’m not the only one cruising the back roads in a truck. Scanning for any sign of life, where adversity hasn’t won. Who takes solace, though seemingly confined to a very small universe, from the instruction of intuition, random impulses, momentary revelations, & tears. I can sense who’s listening out there. The ones who have been gravely injured, but who are outgrowing this ingrained, society-driven tendency towards failure. An ornery, earthy, brilliant cohort, I’m proud to call, my own.”
