River of Spring
We had a lot of rain over the weekend, and as I dodged the drops (not always successfully), I thought about the moistness that’s the
beginning, the true origin, of spring — and of all life.
beginning, the true origin, of spring — and of all life.
Noticing the swollen buds on the forsythia, a pinch of yellow
here and there. The greening of stems, the smallest actors.
here and there. The greening of stems, the smallest actors.
The birds get it before we do. They know the days are
getting longer, the light stronger. They know the river of spring is rising.
getting longer, the light stronger. They know the river of spring is rising.
I want to enter this river, knowing it will be muddy and
cold. I want to be carried along into true spring. Beyond the pale yellow of
forsythia into the pinks and whites and purples of azalea, dogwood and lilac.
Right now we are on the banks, just dipping our toe into the waters. But soon
we will be riding high.
cold. I want to be carried along into true spring. Beyond the pale yellow of
forsythia into the pinks and whites and purples of azalea, dogwood and lilac.
Right now we are on the banks, just dipping our toe into the waters. But soon
we will be riding high.
Poetry Month
Trees have budded and bowed, petals littering the grass. Their golds are green now and shade has returned to the land. Oak tree catkins drape themselves on the azaleas and maple seeds helicopter down.
Nature seems ready to burst with all this growth and all this gladness. It needs an outlet. It needs a poem. Even this one:
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
Happy National Poetry Month!
Second Beginning
A pre-dawn walk today in a light rain, Cyclops-eye blazing, cap and a hood to keep the drops at bay. These early outings merge into dreamscape. Did I really don shoes and socks and walk to Fox Mill Road and back? Or was that another walk, another day?
By the time I left the house this morning the day had lightened and the rain was steadier. The pink dogwood lifted its arms gracefully on one side of the yard, and the white dogwood took my breath away. In between were ferns, azaleas and forget-me-nots. The familiarity of the spring garden.
It seemed a different day than one hour earlier. A second beginning.
A Dogwood’s Year
After an early bloom and an untimely freeze, I didn’t expect much of Spring this year. But it has surprised me. The hyacinths are wafting, the lilacs are trying (I have three blooms this year, up one from last year) and the dogwood, well, it’s something else entirely.
I remember when we would have four or five flowers on this tree. And now, it has burst into life and threatens to overcome the mailbox if there isn’t some judicious pruning.
Until there is, here’s the shaggy, unruly tree in all its gleaming,white 2017 glory.
Work of Redemption
Trotting down the road this morning I looked to my right, at the trees just greening in the forest. Little leaves still so young, so tender. They were shining with the effort and the touch of early light.
Maybe it was the music playing in my ears at that moment, a string trio by Mendelssohn, or maybe it was the release of a work week’s tension, but I was suddenly overwhelmed by the bravery of those leaves, by the work of redemption they perform every spring.
Of course, there’s a biological explanation for what they do. I vaguely remember it from high school biology class.
But for me, the biological becomes the metaphorical, just as the walk becomes the lodestone, the anchor of a day.
Finding the Source
I’m skipping the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin this year, an annual ritual I haven’t missed in 10 years. This is in part because of the cold-stunted blooms this year and in part because I can’t easily walk to the show.
But cherry blossoms are everywhere. Even on my 12-minute walks around the block. And I’m not the only one who notices.
It’s not a matter of traveling to the source, but of finding the source wherever you happen to be.
Enough
These days I take walks whenever and wherever I can find them. On busy days, around the block is all I have time and space for. Yesterday was one of those days.
I pushed open the heavy glass door, slipped on my sunglasses and turned right at the Cosi Restaurant to reach the service road.
Usually it’s quiet back there but yesterday there was enough traffic to keep me on my toes, skirting puddles while steering clear of delivery trucks.
At the end of the block there’s a fitness park, which is where I snapped this photo. Many of flowering trees took a hit in last week’s frigid weather. About half of Washington’s famed cherry blossoms were nipped, the first time this has happened in the trees’ century-old history.
But this little guy survived. And seeing him there with a background of blue made me feel like it was truly spring, not just March 20.
It was a short walk. But it was enough.
Snowdrops: A Beginning?
Last evening on the way home from work I realized that I had the time and the daylight to take a walk on a Reston trail. It’s the path that I’ll call CCC (Cross County Connector; see yesterday’s post!) because the last part of it merges with my beloved Cross County Trail.
What a walk it was! The birds were singing, the sun was lowering and the flowers were blooming. Great clusters of snowdrops peeping up not from the snow (which has been scarce to nonexistent this year) but from the leaves and brown grass.
These are wintry flowers, white and delicate, but they are further harbingers of the season. They are proof that this balminess, this lovely light, is not just a preview but maybe, just maybe, a beginning.
Pulling for Pansies
Every fall landscapers engage in the delightfully doomed act of planting pansies. False hope, I say to myself. These flowers will never make it.
And, for the last few years, I’ve been right. Cold temps and frigid winds nipped the plants, and come spring, there was nothing left but a few withered stems.
But this year the pansies are thriving. Look at these babies, resplendent in their midwinter glory.
I used to think I didn’t “deserve” spring if I hadn’t suffered through winter. Blame it on Catholicism — or on living in Chicago for a few years.
This year I consider any escape from winter a gift from the gods. I’m pulling for pansies.