Because they are poems, they can speak for themselves.
But pour a cup of tea before you sit to listen;
some of them can go on for hours.
Day 80 – Found Poems
Small Graces
This is the week that the clocks leaped ahead and the first flowers of the season burst on the scene. Spring has come at last, and I am downright giddy over its arrival. A small crocus opens in my garden. Along the roadside, the first coltsfoot beams up at me. A robin arrives to sit in that tree, right there.
I don’t know why—for a lot of reasons, I suppose—but I am deeply moved by all of this. Maybe it’s the contrast with the ice that was so recently here. Maybe its the emergence of color and birdsong after a long night of darkness and silence. Whatever the cause, I am moved by these small graces, these restorers of hope.
It’s not that life doesn’t place stars in the darkest nights. We’re never without at least pinpoints of light. And I clung to them all throughout the winter, believe me, and gave thanks that they were there. But now! So suddenly, it is spring, and I am overwhelmed with the world’s overnight transformation,
Maybe it’s a sign, I say to myself, smiling at how I reach for the wisdom of superstition, Maybe it’s like waking to find yourself inside a giant, luminous rainbow. How would that be for a sign?
I stand in the warm sun listening. The birds are returning, and from the creek such a chorus of frogs! Small graces. Priceless ones.
I lifted layers of oak leaves from the flower gardens and pulled out the tiny weeds. The soil smelled moist and rich, and the thick, green sprouts reaching up from it stood eager and proud. I think it wouldn’t hurt to put out some hummingbird nectar this week. You never know. They might fly in and need a good drink.
Sometimes I stop in my tracks and look around in wonder. “I get to be here,” I whisper to the spring air. “I get to be here.”
And so do you! I wish you Happy Spring, my friend.
May small graces bless your week and fill your heart with gentle joy.
Warmly,
Susan
Day 79 – The Creek Sings Spring
Her pastel colors and sweet perfumes belie her.
There’s nothing subtle about Spring. Just look
at the way she arrives—oh, on that darling white pony
leaving coltsfoot to show where it danced—but that aside
look how all at once she’s here and everything is in motion.
Day 78 – The Coltsfoot
I walked along the main road, heading toward the creek,
not another human in sight. There, staring up at me
from the other side of the guardrail, was a bed of coltsfoot.
And I wasn’t even thinking about them them today.
Good things often happen like that, sliding into your world
when you’re least expecting them, as you no doubt have noticed.
The coltsfoot and the crocuses pop up at almost the same time
as each other every year, with the crocuses just a smidgen ahead.
They’re like hope fulfilled, signs that I’ve lived through the winter
yet again. And I’m glad for that. I have a prayer on file
asking to stay at least until I get to see the sky-blue irises
that I planted last fall. And now that I’ve made it this far,
I want to amend that. I want to see the whole parade.
Day 77 – Spring in the Oak Grove
This is the only world like this, you know.
There’s no other Earth, no matter how far you go.
And we get to live in it, for this flicker of a lifetime,
and then to carry it with us past time itself.
I walked on the raised pathway through the oak grove
listening to a near-deafening chorus of frog song,
so varied in pitch and rhythm as it glided through the trees,
whose feet the rains had come to wash for spring.
Think of the energy they must summon to pull their thick sap
all the way from their roots up to the tips that touch the sky
and to make leaves and acorns from nothing but that and light.
They deserve this drenching and this clamorous serenade.
Only this one, this Earth. I let the sight of these oaks,
well over their ankles in water, soak into my being. I dissolve
in the scene and wear its smell. I taste the cool of it.
I will remember you, I say to it as I leave. I will remember.
Day 76 – Season Opener
Someone has to go first, to risk the hazards,
to scout the terrain and send back reports.
Volunteer or elected, however it came to be,
here they find themselves, both responsibility
and privilege resting on their shoulders.
This year, as in all the years I’ve watched,
the same clan has sent them.
These are the ones who step forth.
Upright and tall they arrive, wearing
the colors of a king. And rightly so.
I salute them, my toes curling in glee
as I drink in their thirst-quenching photons.
They are here, I whisper to the sky.
They are here. They are here.
The sun warms my back. It knows.
Day 75 – Only Earth, Only Sky
At cloud-height the winds are fierce. You can tell
by the way the clouds sweep across the sky.
But here, at the base of these broad hills,
it is still. Not one brittle husk is moving.
It’s as if the earth is holding its breath, or breathing
in slow, meditative rolls. If you stand here
and listen with your whole body, you can feel
the power–rested, awake, waiting.
Here, only earth, only sky. And between them, all
that is needed to sustain their every child. All of them.
And I get to stand here, a guest at the wedding,
tears at the beauty of it welling in my eyes.
Day 74 Encore Snow
An encore snow powdered down overnight,
two inches of it. Just right. And the blue sky
and sunshine irresistibly lured me to come play.
Then it happened. That seldom-in-a-lifetime
and only if you’re very lucky event. I caught them.
The trees. Just finishing a twirl.
You know that moment when a dance ends
and the last note has just faded into silence?
That’s how it was. I could almost hear
them settling the way they do after
a gust of wind has passed through. And I swear
their branches were slightly bobbing, even though
the air was perfectly still now, holding nothing
but exuberance, left over, I am sure,
from the dance.
Day 73 – Saving the Daylight
Here’s what I wrote in my journal, a little piece of satire for my own entertainment:
12:30 Well, maybe. It’s clock-change day.
We’re, um, saving daylight now. I never quite understood how that works. I picture somebody in a lab coat, all expert-looking, trying to stuff it into a quart-sized canning jar. But it’s light, you know, and it keeps spilling out all over.
Anyway, everybody had to “spring forward,” and it’s now an hour later than it was yesterday at this time. So I guess whoever is in charge of this clocks thing must have figured out a way to tuck that missing hour of light safely away somewhere for us all. We’ll adjust. It’s the price we have to pay, right? You never know when we might need it after all.
And regardless of the nuisance, isn’t it amazing that we can actually save daylight now?
Life is a wondrous and mysterious place.
Oozing Contentment
I was visiting with a circle of close friends and Patricia said something about feeling contentment. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “That’s my very favorite positive emotion. If I had to pick just one, contentment would be it.”
Patricia said how she much preferred it to happiness or joy, which, to her, sounded airy and frivolous somehow, superficial. She shimmied her upraised hands in the air and we laughed.
I told her I understood exactly what she meant. It’s hard to take joy or happiness seriously; they’re so lightly portrayed. But contentment, yeah, you can settle right in with that. Let it ooze up all around you, all peaceful and warm.
I thought about our conversation later and about the book Authentic Happiness that was popularized when the study of positive psychology came into vogue. Its purpose was to differentiate the happiness and joy that we associate with giddiness and delight from the soul-deep happiness that dwells in the core of our being.
Why I hold contentment as my favorite emotion is that it’s filled with such a profound acceptance, even welcoming, of everything that floats through our awareness. Get there, and you’ll know the taste of true joy. The deeper you go, the more beautiful it becomes.
I thought about this as I ventured out into the cold, windy morning to feed the birds and get a couple photos. I must admit it wasn’t something I was happy about doing. I’ve been smitten with a serious case of spring fever and I am more than ready to see winter go. But the poor birds needed breakfast, given the two inches of fresh snow, and I needed photos.
I tell the tale of my venture into the cold and the lessons that it brought me in the piece I wrote after I came in and got warm. It’s called The Snow Today. It has pictures, too.
It’s actually the “Day 72” piece for my 100-Day Challenge to add to my blog every day. Remember? I’ll reach the three-quarter mark this week and I think I’m starting to hit my stride. I like how it’s evolving. I like what I’m learning as I go along, and I’m having a blast. This week, one of my faithful readers said the countdown was making her a bit sad. She didn’t want to see it end. I told her nobody said I had to quit at 100. I’m just starting to have fun!
With all the turmoil and suffering in this old world, it’s wise to have an hour or so set aside every day to do something that will hold your attention, let you develop a skill, put you in the flow state for a bit. It helps keep you sane. It places you into a different parcel of reality for a while. It’s kind of like a fine, mental vacation. At least that’s how my daily challenge feels to me, for what it’s worth. I thought you might enjoy an update.
Whatever works. That’s my motto. Sometimes this works; sometimes that. Sometimes you get to do some inventing. The key, though, is to keep moving toward that state of contentment, that utterly full and completely easy acceptance of everything, just as it is. Because that’s just a beautiful place to be.
Joy smiles beaming your way.
Warmly,
Susan