I had been back in the North Country for 10 days, but it would seem that as yet I had not even opened my eyes. My sister asked me if I my crocuses were out, and walked me outside to see hers. Their progress had been lovingly noted since the first small pinprick of green had creased the soil or pushed up under the still remaining mantle of snow. Surely, she said, I must have some too. But my winter mind was still focused inside on the leftovers of last year; repacking Christmas decorations (still waiting for me here in March after I drove south during the holiday season -- What? They didn't put themselves away?), cleaning away the dust that had settled over possessions and thoughts as well, putting things back in order and thinking to prepare for new life in the spring. Somehow, spring had arrived while I was lost in its anticipation.
I walked out the next morning and really looked at my yard. There were brave little purple blossoms all along the front fence, thrusting up through as yet unraked leaves and nearly buried under sand swept from the center of the road after a season of winter plowing. I spent the morning raking and tidying, and now the row of crocuses is startling and bright and I wonder how I could have missed their profusion. The longing, anticipation and preparation had become so absorbing that I almost missed the real thing. And they such bright and loud, almost raucous harbingers.
Is there a lesson in my deafness to the loud shout of spring all around my house? This is what I longed for and rushed back to see, yet I have been so focused on preparing for it that I almost missed it happening all around me.
No comments:
Post a Comment