A March Meditation
The light is shifting in that way that announces winter’s impending death. Snowbanks diminish to cold water, flow down streets and sidewalks. When I was a kid, I sailed toothpicks in those cold streams, imagined I could send small vessels to the ocean.
Now I fly inside a plane to get to the ocean, leave the toothpicks in their box in a kitchen drawer. There is no less sense of enchantment with spring, however. No less immersion in the sun’s rays that slice through windowpanes and puddle on the floor. The shift wakes us up, nudges us to get moving, clean out detritus, recompose our lives. A week ago, I had just returned from California’s warmer climate, discovered new snow in my own backyard. This week, I see the garden alongside the driveway peeking from beneath a snowbank, grass still slumbering but lightly now. Birdsong has changed; it’s louder, more insistent in the mornings when I’m outside with the dog. Rabbit tracks have pockmarked the entire front and back yards, fluffy rabbit tails mere flashes when I walk too near.
But that light. It reaches inside the house, illuminates the pillows on the couch, the dishes on the counter, the white daisies I brought home from the grocery store. The darkness of winter is waning, along with my need to tunnel beneath a blanket, sleep and sleep and sleep.
Yesterday, I packed up old clothes, old sheets, put them in a bag for donation. I ordered a new pair of sunglasses. The dog went outside without her coat, all 12 pounds of her wriggling in afternoon sunshine. I went with her, inhaled air that smelled new, that didn’t exhale into a puff of steam.
Spring, I am ready for you. I believe all of us are.
images couresy of pixabay.com