Seems a
shame, daffodils defiantly spurt into bloom, only to be battered by heavy rain.
- Only a romantic living on the British Isles in the last century could think April is the cruelest month. For most of history, at least in Western Europe and North America, just about any month would have its share of possible horror and disaster. Famine, plague, war, crop failure, weather misery.
- Well, we’re temporarily at least beyond all that. Each day is marvelous. But still, we manage to worry a lot, mostly that it will all go away. I don’t know if that is basic human perversity or just a lack of grace in the cultural soul of United States citizens.
- Fortunately, life usually grabs us by the throat and forces us to exist in the moment. It’s hard to encounter a bright red cardinal, a newly returned robin, a pair of gamboling squirrels, without breaking into a grin. Hard to ignore crocuses and daffodils and an explosion of forsythia bushes or puffs of maple flowers high overhead. Right now, this instant, warm and safe and well fed and happy _ isn’t life fine?
- Well, yes, we admit grudgingly. But you know …. And off we go into a litany of possible, probable, massive, apocalyptic looming disasters.
- I stop myself there, I force myself back to the birds and flowers, back to the sky and water, back to my berries and milk, back to the reality that right now for me this is a great time. I should make the most of it.
Nice one day, brutal fog next, again
grateful to not be an ancient mariner.
- Water. Fog, rain, reflections, ripples, breakers, drinks, baths: infinite lists, infinitely present. Life itself. And, underlying all which is obvious each day, the transformations of weather and scenery and well-being, are magical chemical properties in an astounding atomic structure. So easy to take for granted, even easier to seize on one aspect or notion.
- Spring in Huntington can be the season of overt rain. It falls heavily or lightly from mists, mixes into mud, forms sparkling droplets on bare branches. After days of precipitation, our mood longs for it to go away, but after a long spell of dry cool wind we are grateful for its return. The most remarkable thing about water is that we usually end accepting it as not remarkable at all.
- April showers bring May flowers.
- But April flowers are more welcomed.
Grass is greening but most of the landscape
remains February mode at Coindre Hall.
- How remarkable it all is. Every morning I wake amazed to be alive, to be here, to be me, to have an entire new world to explore. Infinite things to enjoy, discover, ignore, or complain about. Bits of pain and hardship to accent joys and comfort. What a world! What a life!
- Yet I become as jaded as anyone. My senses quickly filter all immensity into streams I can accept without overload. I fail to notice most of the ongoing information. Sight, sound, touch, scent, taste, internal rhythm _ all of it fades away to be replaced by the pale cast of organized logical thoughts or wandering daydreams. My mind immerses itself in the swamps of cosmic mysteries contemplated, and leaves all mundane reality behind.
- What a fine thing it is to live in a chaotic, unpredictable universe! How dull it would be if we really were to inhabit some perfectly controlled environment, a Newtonian nightmare with no surprise nor mystery. This morning, this day, I am overwhelmed with happiness.
- Yet, already, I fade into a land of desires and begin the cycle of desires anew.
Some dark rainy days the only available
colors are cheerful yellow oil-restriction booms.
- Humans breed plants for varied reasons _ better food, nicer flowers, drought resistance, leaf color or shape, and so on. Few, however, concentrate on buds. Like all the intricate miracles of life, buds are all different and all fascinating to stare at, at least for a while.
- The ephemeral nature of buds, of course, makes even the thought of growing a plant for its bud structure a little odd. Buds are usually even more ephemeral than the flowers or leaves they will eventually produce. This time of year is truly the season of buds. We observe them anxiously, awaiting their promise of finer things to come. I guess they would think it’s good enough to be noticed _ even for a short while _ than to be ignored all the time.
No new shoots on reeds, no leaves on trees,
boats still high and dry, spring seems later than ever.
“Hey, hi
there, handsome!”
Dan perks up
on his hind legs, balancing, almost forgetting the seed in his squirrel paws. “Gosh, hi Suzi! What a surprise! You’re looking good.”
“You too,
with that big strong full tail ….”
“That’s not
all that’s big and strong and full,” barks Dan salaciously.
“Oh, you
boys are all the same this time of year,” little coquette Suzi responds. Suddenly she twists upward. “Oh, look!
Something strange! I must dash!” She runs up the thick trunk behind her.
“Wait Suzi
Wait!” Dan scampers after.
“Catch me if
you can!” she flies from a hemlock
branch onto a nearby roof and races across.
Dan follows,
ignoring danger, finally draws close as she pauses for breath on the limb of a
distant hickory. “Why do you have to be
that way?” he pants.
“If you
can’t keep up,” laughs Suzi, “I just might go see how Ralph is doing ….”
“Aw, Suzi …”
Day
continues bright, cold, clear, spring, endless time for both of them entranced
in the instinctual dances of nature.
Sunday
April sings
seductive songs, pied piper of the North
Blooms pop,
robins hop,
Squirrels
play, bulb shoots sway,
Trees’ verdant
buds burst forth.
Sunshine
streams so bright it seems a crime to stay inside
Rush out to
see, immediately
Skin gets
cold, joints ache old,
Patience
whispers wait, abide.
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