And somehow its early arrival and unseasonable warmth amplified my sentiments and passion for life.
The growth and rebirth of the earth inspires me to the core. I miss the bluest of skies filled with clouds that shift shapes. I cherish endless bouquets of dandelions and buttercups. And I sense the buzz of the insects, the annoyance of ants, & the smell of fresh cut grass as I turn the soil; setting seeds and plans for the coming season.
My heart and soul truly ache from the pleasure of living in this moment, and I am acutely aware of the blessings of my life. I enjoy the now for what it is.
::
Due to a myriad of reasons, work has been a task and hooky more so a privilege. And in the middle of it all, I took off a day to spend with my best friend. Our children played. We shared company at a slower pace, and set the first picnic of many to come. And Nate in all of his innocence is now a boy.
Nate's long distance sprint back to Mama stirred a monster within Alex. Her just-born competitive streak drove her to cream the little boy who didn't have a clue. And I am left amazed that my etherial fairy who needs to be instructed 4 or 5 times to complete a task has a ruthless drive. Maybe there's a sense of focus deep inside her after all.
::
I was reminded once again that giving young children space to play at a birthday party is all they need; so a local park and an accessible toilet make great partners. As expected, Alex started her adventure at the swings - I think she uses the swings as a way of psyching-up for massive activity.
But my favorite part was the jungle gym encompassed in a massive sand box.
The park was located in Arlington, Virginia and Nancy and I planned to walk our children post-celebration around the title basin to savor the blooming Cherry trees; but 4 hours of play proved that even the best of kids can be too tired to sit gracefully without complaint.
::
I will be back in a few days to share my creativity and inspiration generated from this season. For now, here's wishing you all a happy Easter and a wonderful spring.
Such Singing in the Wild Branches (2003)
It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.
— Mary Oliver, "Such Singing in the Wild Branches"
Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays,
Beacon Press, Boston, 2003, pp. 8-9
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.
— Mary Oliver, "Such Singing in the Wild Branches"
Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays,
Beacon Press, Boston, 2003, pp. 8-9
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