Refrigerator Weather

After 10 days of summer, spring has arrived. Saturday started out mostly cloudy, then it snowed, then the sun shone. Even though the thermometer said 57 degrees, i bundled up against the chill breezes.

The recent spate of 70 degree, 80 degree, 90 degree days felt great, of course, but i also felt as if it were too good to be true. A meterological "bubble" that had to burst in order to realign the forces of the natural world around us. I imagined glaciers melting and the polar ice cap receding as the heat wilted the snowdrops in my flower beds.

The refrigerator weather of spring keeps daffodils brightening up our days and slows down the aging and fading process for other spring arrivals.

Russian Red Kale

Russian red kale easily survived our New England winter, so i harvested enough for dinner. Braised with onions and garlic from last summer's garden, our supper last evening cost $0.

Leftovers from 2 years ago went into the compost pile to become compost last spring and spread on the vegetable garden to grow kale and onions that we eat for dinner. Any leftovers or onion skins go into the compost bucket and....

Kale--an exemplar of the circle of life that flows through us.

Barred Owls Talking

The barred owls are teaching their babies to talk, right outside my bedroom window. The lesson begins shortly after i go to bed.

The parents carefully enunciate, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?"
And the babies think this is the most hilarious thing they've ever heard. "Hoo. Hoo. Ha. Ha" in a rising pitch that sounds like it belongs in an African jungle.

The barred owls--old and wise--call to me as i drift toward darkness.

Bloodroot

The bloodroot are blooming. This ephemeral wildflower grows in little colonies--but not where i originally planted it.

Right now, it's blossoming in the middle of a triangular flowerbed--right where i've planted all the tall stuff. But the tall perennials haven't peeked their heads out of the winter bed yet, so the bloodroot may as well flower there in center stage.

One is also blooming in between two stones in the walk near the front door.

Never mind that i can't control it. I simply put it in a place where i thought it would look good, and now it grows of its own accord.

We also plant wholesome thoughts and actions in our everyday lives. And then one day, we notice, "Oh, i used to be mad at this person. And now i'm not." Or, "Oh, this situation used to make me anxious. And right now it doesn't."

That's the benefit of sowing skillful seeds. You never know where they will show up.

About Time

It was about time, i suppose--i finally took the Christmas wreath off the front door. It was looking a little piqued now that warm weather has arrived. The green circle of living balsam lasted 4 months--from Christmas to Easter, from Hanukkah to Passover. There seems a certain poetic justice in that.

Yet it's just a story about time--as if time actually existed.

Time is just a way for the mind to compare past to present, past to future. In fact, past and future are mental constructions, with as much substance as a dream. The body, on the other hand, is always here now.

This gift of the present moment is the only place we can be.

April is the cruelest month

"April is the cruelest month," said Shakespeare. The Buddha calls such disappointment "suffering."

70 degree day, flowers blooming, birds singing--what's not to love? Falling in love with Spring feels great!

Year after year, i forget how fickle April is. Just after i've skimmed down to shorts and a tank top, April turns a cold shoulder, and i cover myself in polar fleece. Just when my face is tanning from the warm sun, my lover April pelts me with cold showers. Just when my body relaxes into April's embrace, she chills out, and i shiver

Oh April! Receiver of my pent-up energy.

When hopes and dreams and expectations are dashed, dissatisfaction weighs down our hearts, and we call it cruel.

The Person I Used To Be

April showers have come early this year, and the creeks are running near flood stage. Spring run-off, we say. And where does the spring of our life run off to? Where is that young face and lithe body?

The photos of the person i call "me" delude me into thinking that's the person i used to be. In fact, that person is dead now.

Yes, i can remember her memories--sort of. Five years of college, living with her boyfriend in Florida. She was a VISTA volunteer in Utah, and i can tell you about all those national parks on the Colorado River Plateau. She fell in love with a Japanese-American and followed him to Hawai'i. I can tell you a lot about Hawai'i. She moved to Vermont to get a Master's degree; I live here still.

The events of that young woman's life set in motion a chain of events that, even today, i feel the ripples of.

The creek is roaring outside the window. In summer it becomes calm and tinkling. Now, in the autumn of my life, the mindstream is littered with the fallen leaves of memories--some clogging little channels and some settling to the bottom to decompose.

The creek flows on. A young middle-aged old life running its course, never able to flow backwards to the person i used to be.