Stelly lies magnificently surrounded by flowers, confined in the place of honor at the front of the parlor. Entering at the back, over the shoulder of her father, a beautiful—not yet full-term—infant gazes at the gathered. One spark of life replenishing a spark gone out; is this interrelationship of spirits god, or is there no need for labels.
In need of consolation, I think of the Buddha. I think of change and impermanence, of sickness and death, and of seeking. We live in a world driven to find answers to the unanswerable. Why bother, better to spend time more concretely: time with friends and family, time on boats and bikes, time in cluttered basements full of half completed projects.
Now that the wind has warmed and the bird’s songs have increased in tempo there is also time for the garden. No need for an alarm clock this time of year. Our feathered friends are up before dawn; making up for a long winter spent huddled in the next-door neighbor’s blue spruce. Courting English sparrows (not my favorite bird) put on noisy aerial displays that rival those of the Blue Angels.
The backyard’s dingy grey soil is streaked with the green and purple of garlic, hostas, tulips, peonies and of course, a multitude of weeds. The grass begins to grow like tuffs of poorly cut hair. After being covered by a foot of winter’s mushy snow the soil is now dry and cracked. I feel the need for rain, as do the plants. When it finally rains—days and nights of cold drizzle—all growth ceases. Every thing is on hold, waiting for the sun and then with an explosion of growth, winter is over. It does not matter what happens now: another snowstorm or frost is irrelevant.
This spring has been especially vibrant. Buds galore: white and purple and green and pink. I hear on the radio that this is more evidence of global warming. A silver lining, and then I think about the new pest appearing in the garden and my glee is tempered.
Soon I will be fifty-seven. Long enough to have seen a few cycles come and go. Long enough to recognize patterns and to expect change. I continually look over my shoulder for the next squall. My diligence is not misplaced. Man-made or natural calamities are never far behind.
In the end all is transfigured: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We cope and we succumb. My days are full of such revelations. I watch people knowingly speed towards their own end. It is, as above, a recognition of patterns. What can I say to convince my patients to recognize the danger, but at this, sorry to say, I am a failure. Uncontrolled blood sugar and cholesterol, sky-rocketing blood pressure, miserable diets, no exercise, substance abuse; is it ignorance or lack of common sense. I think not. It is habit and up bringing, and I suppose stubbornness.
In this you have the makings of a disaster. From healthy vibrant souls to dissipation, but this is too negative a tone for spring. We have four months of hope and growth ahead of us. Four months for raspberries, pole beans, basil, tomatoes and zucchini. They grow from tiny seeds under grow lamps in my front room into large flourishing backyard plants.
We have four months to store the hope and energy of spring and summer: four months of cleansing thunderstorms and deep humid heat; four months of fluffy cumulus clouds and gentle southeast winds; four months to transform ourselves from cold and grumpy into warm and elated.
It is the same every year even if is not expected in the frigid darkness of February. So now we live with memories and expectations. Memories of a once cheerful soul now departed and expectations that a similarly cheerful soul will emerge from her father’s back to bring the same joy into the world—our world.
Volume 5809 (4), 5/21/2010
