We sit at the dining room table eating our breakfast on a Sunday morning. The geese are flying in, following the river from the north to our house then they turn and head back up the river. Is it spring or is it not? That is the burning question these days. The goldfinches are in their full yellow splendor. The eagle makes a swoop down the river to our house and then she also heads back to the small island and to her nest. The deer across the river are more visible as they dine on the promise of new grasses with hopes for a heartier fresher meal.
We believe it is fully spring despite the heavy layer of snow. Each day we can do more outside, today leaving the storm door open to take full advantage of the warming slant of the sun into the doorway.
Those who are grieving are telling me they are needing a break from the long winter, wanting to move their grief into the soil of the garden, planting something that offers color and promise of harvest, digging with their own hands, heart, and soul. This last storm left Dan with a stroke of which he is making some recovery with a long journey ahead. This last storm also dropped a barn roof on a barn of 100 milk cows. A devastating loss for a farmer. Dan is working hard to regain use of his body. The farmer is assessing his loss and with help restoring his barn and herd. This is our human resilience, our movement toward light, health, spring. Restorative spring.
Could we be like the geese and simply move toward the rays of spring light and warmth, simply because? Or the warbler who makes her nest ready for her new young, as it is time to do so? Could we merely stand in gratitude for this new day of snow, sun, puddles, and returning geese because it is a new day of life?
In the words of poet Mary Oliver, let us..
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
As we allow the day to enter us fully we feel the day in every cell of our being. How can we not sing it out, draw it out, share the joy of the story of our life even if it is in the quiet of our own heart. Even if it is the warbler who alone understands our song.
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Thank you for your words. I suppose I’d be more astonished if I could walk, but I remain a child in some ways, excited by the changes I am seeing. We are not keeping honey bees anymore, but the little native bees that come up from the sand in the spring are visiting the trees and bushes. I haven’t seen a bumble bee yet, but I look forward to that.
Mary, I have no doubt in your astonishment for what this world offers in its natural delights. It shows very clearly in your art. I enjoyed seeing your work at Image.
Thanks, Jan. It was good to talk with you the other day. I am truly amazed at the way you have taken to charcoal. Your work, even before your first drawing class is wonderful, powerful.