The lilac trees in the neighbor’s yard are tipped with soft green….I feel as if I’m holding my breath. Although, if truth be told, I’ve felt this way for months now. Last year didn’t end with confidence. I’ve just reread that sentence four times. Its simplicity somehow is satisfying while it falls chasms short of describing those months. There are moments in life that absolutely have no words.
I don’t believe I could live in a climate that didn’t have
seasons like this part of the world – for the sheer and basic reality of
emotional stability. Every year Summer’s
igneous heat pummels the grass of our yard to a faded yellow pulp; and then
Autumn arrives with her glorious cloak of nutmeg and ocher leaves that scatter
in the smoke-scented wind. My soul soars
those months.
The frost appears, tracing icy lace along my windows,
reminding me to pull out the sweaters and Christmas garland. The holidays are magic; twined with music and
mulled wine and the glitter of starlight on snow….and then Winter creeps in. I swear he steals beneath the trees when we
sleep, his claws so hard and dark and cold.
The air burns just to breathe. The
slush and grit of winter invade me; cling to my feet and drag upon my soul…and
then the lilacs bud.
Life has such seasons.
I’m rather tired of winters.
Have you ever had a dream that when you awoke, you didn’t
know whether to be relieved or sad? I am
in such need of Spring that I fear I am reckless this year. I’ve torn the plastic from the kitchen window
already….there are hyacinths on my dining room table. I’ve painted my toenails. Please Lord, let Spring be near. I fear my heart cannot keep up this mad pulse
without sunlight and warmth.
Hope is a season. A
spring renewed that is astonishing in its ability to reappear after the
dark. When the storms have passed and
the wreckage is left, how amazing are the glimmers of green that forever persevere
between the fragments of our humanity.
