That evening in May…
The return of the Thrush
The sweet face of the Violet
Tender light
Soft air
Gentle hues… Everywhere
The play of the breeze
and the last bits of light
Sending Morse code
across the pond:
WE. ARE. HERE.
Category: Day in a Life VT
Mother’s Day Morning in Vermont
The miniature bouquets of bluets have arrived,
and the golden dandelions,
and the gift of morning dew on the Lady’s Mantle–a
Mother’s Day communion that I press into my Third Eye.
The ants are here too, building hills right outside my front door,
seeming to claim that spring belongs to us all;
while the woodpecker–the one who drums from deep in the woods–
lends a jungle sound to our Green Mountain home.
Mother’s Day…
That pause in May between
Mud Season and Bug Season,
just before the Campers arrive in their SUV’s to ready Neringa Pond
for a summer of (joyful) Noise.
My boys, still in their beds;
the oldest, just home from college, last night,
looking like my mother as he sleeps,
while his younger brother broadens briskly, taking our breath away.
I prepare a mug of Matcha,
dressed in the Kimono that Peggy passed along,
clad in my new cushioned flip flops,
and follow the sweep of my driveway…
to Her.
In this moment, beside the still waters,
I can’t imagine how I ever thought
of living Anywhere,
but Here.
a meditation on spring
The Universe has conspired to reveal signs of spring–even to me–she who remains indoors, in spite of herself–a boycott to unseasonable weather.
For days now, I’ve watched, as the single green seat cushion–the one that we bought on clearance, and placed outside–prematurely–atop one of the four metal seats–that came with the round patio table–that we brought home from the Marlboro Community Sale–on free day–takes a tour around my yard, compliments of a wintry wind.
At first it blew to the South, near the Birch that I loved when we first cleared this land for our home, but which over the years has become a stump of itself. I worried that we’d lose our single cushion, but I didn’t go outside to retrieve it.
The next day, I noticed that it had blown into the West, just past the raised beds.
The first, second, third, fourth, fifth sixth…
Every year we added another.
We stopped at 7.
The cushion was closer now, so I could easily grab it, without too much exposure, but I left it there, in the cold, while I remained warm inside.
I’m not sure what the cushion did during the nights, whether it headed North, or over the house, but the next morning, I looked out from my bedroom to spy it near the outdoor shower, in the East, at the edge of the woods.
I left it there, until I came home that afternoon from work, and saw that it had moved closer, beside something of… color.
COLOR?
COLOR!
I dashed from my car, past the woodshed, past the tool shed, over the place where the remnants of the last snow pile left its debris, and up the stone path to the wannabee garden of perennials competing with weeds where we dug in a handful of bulbs despite our historical need for immediate gratification.
There beside the fair cushion was the COLOR PURPLE!
The first color of spring!
I ran inside for the camera, and took a tour around the land–to each of the places where the cushion led,
and then brought it inside,
for safekeeping.
Sighs of spring…
Sunrise, Easter Morning
Bgy. Sto. Cristo, San Isidro, Nueva Ecija, Phil.
My husband and I lounge under the covers as a jeweled sun sparkles through the trees on its way to our sky.
When the wind blows, the forest sways, dispatching flashes of gold onto our bodies, offering a perfect sermon for a Sunday morning.
Easter 2015, A.D.
The baskets are waiting. The eggs dyed. The reservations for brunch confirmed.
Last night we watched Chocolat with Lake Champlain 5 Star Chocolate Bars, and then listened to bits and pieces of the soundtrack from Godspell, centering on the score for the Crucifixion scene.
Most memorable, however, was the moment I pulled out 4 plates (of my Nana’s china) instead of 3, because our oldest was home.
Last Supper.
He had surprised us, downtown, the night before, when we were doing what I love best–floating from place to place, bumping into something sweet–which is particularly potent on a spring evening at Gallery Walk in Brattleboro.
Good Friday.
My youngest and I had just finished our monthly stroll through the Brattleboro Museum & Art Center–one of our favorite stops through the years–where we always take time to visit the kids room to make some art of our own.
It was inside the River Garden, however, where the family first came together, as a whole, attracted by the sounds of horns, played by the stunning Brattleboro High School Jazz Band.
During a particularly poignant interlude–when my husband’s hand clasped mine, and geese flew over the river, and spring stirred inside me–I felt something I’d never felt before:
Resentment.
Toward new life.
In that moment, I knew the seasons were indifferent.
That spring would come, whether I welcomed it, or celebrated it, or–worse yet–
whether I was here for it.
Perhaps it was my age, 51, ripening past peak, or the long white winter spilling into April, or that a loved one’s life was on the line; but suddenly—the young girls in bloom, the birds return, and the color green–represented something beyond–me.
Just like winter, I would pass, and the giddy world would go on resurrecting… without me.
wild & precious
a snowy February morning
the world rising white
the crackle of the fire
rushed kisses goodbye
the remains of breakfast (and devotion)
rendering the table a piece of art…
bakery bread dipped in eggs from the farm up the road
the last of the August blues, steeped in maple and cinnamon
hot coffee, pressed and poured beside pink candlelight
(blueberry sauce recipe from: Kripalu Breakfast Savory & Sweet)
This Vermont Life 