Or is it? Eek! They’re predicting snow!
T. S. Eliot started “The Wasteland” with “April is the cruelest month.” I understand what he meant. From the time I was young, I often become restless and have a sense of aloneness when spring appears. Sometimes I feel like a butterfly beating its wings against a windowpane.
We cannot have too much beauty in our lives. Not even the great Shakespeare could surpass King Solomon’s “Song of Songs” from The Old Testament.
For, lo, the winter is past;
the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear upon
the Earth;
The time of the singing
of birds is come;
The voice of the turtle (dove)
is heard throughout the land.
Our pussy willow produced catkins; daffodils nod in the breeze; the magnolia has fat buds; a robin hunts for worms while doves peck under the feeder. This morning I heard a cardinal joyfully whistling “Wheat, wheat, wheat!” followed by “Cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer, cheer . . .!” before it was light. That master colorist, the sun, painted the clouds pink. These things and Solomon’s poem soothe my spirit.
And the bloodroot is blooming! That and the arrival of the wrens personify my mother. When I was twelve years old we found a bloodroot in a woods that she transplanted to her wildflower garden and then took to New Castle when she married my stepfather. It grew into a large plant, and she gave it to Bill to plant next to his Jack-in-the-pulpit on Ritter Ave.
The summer that we sold that house it had died down, and I couldn’t find it to take to our next house. I burst into tears at closing and said, “Oh dear, I couldn’t find Mother’s bloodroot.” “Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Bittlelmeyer. “You can get a start next Spring.” Years passed, and I’d be filled with regret — especially after Mother’s death. Eventually I got a start, and achieved a sense of closure when it bloomed. Now all that remains to make my springtime complete is the return of the wrens around Mother’s Day.
Good grief! It feels as if we were celebrating Christmas only last week, and here we are at Easter. The images, sounds and tastes of all the Easters that I’ve experienced are stored deep within my core. I try to avoid too many trips down memory lane because I cannot change, recreate the past, or have the vitality that I once had.
However, willy-nilly, an internal video pops into my mind. As if seen through gauze, Mother and I are coloring eggs. My family are gathered round the table for Mother’s feast that always features the same menu, and I hear their dear voices in my mind’s ear. Fast forward: We and Vicki color eggs, and I cook the same feast. The video zooms to the little grandboys, standing next to our bed on Easter morning. “When you getting’ up?” Grown men now, they, Chris’s wife, Tom and Vicki will come for the feast that will feature Mama’s corn pudding from my great-grandmother’s recipe and that Vicki makes for her feasts. A photo of my nephew, Kenny Thurston, portraying Jesus in a church pageant has been added to my video.
The very repetiveness of such things comforts me, gives me hope and makes me aware of the circularity of life. I had an “ah-ha “ moment and a sensed a kindred spirit when I came across the words of an unknown American Indian woman. From childhood until the present I’ve gone through several phases.
Here on this mountain
I am not alone
For all the lives I used to
live are within me
All the lives tell me now
I have come home
All is a circle within me . . .
Now all is at peace within me.
Now all has a place to
come home.
Last and best, I am home with Bill. wclarke@comcast.net