beauty

DSCF0658.JPGDear friends,

The day I arrived, the temperatures were near 80 degrees, a balmy breeze blowing in from the lake, the windows in my hostess’s log home thrown wide to catch the coming of spring, like those poets who run to catch the poem before it passes through and past.  Aroused the following morning, stirred awake by the exuberance of life outside my head, it seemed as if the earth herself was ringing her astonishment, relieved by her sudden release, at last, from winter’s long hold.

The evening of my arrival, as I wandered about the property, reintroducing myself, the peepers that I visited in the cove were just wakening from their own long sleep to sing their virginal song, where it was the riot of birds in the trees this morning that greeted me. It strikes me that springtime is so much more condensed and concentrated here, as if that movement of the earth around the sun from equinox to solstice, from far away to oh so close, speeds up time as I know it, as if the sprouting and budding and blooming, the emergence of which is slow and sparsed out back home, is a fertile emergency of here, as if she has only so many days in her cycle in which to conceive.

Today, it rains, no, it pours, no, it is more like a deluge, the temperatures near freezing. The rain in the morning ,as I woke, fell in crunchy pellets from a sky that was a brilliant sapphire dome just yesterday, under which my friend and I raked the property from one end to the other, from lake to lane, from 9 until 7, in a race with mother nature (whom we’d heard from the weather watchers would be arriving with her torrents  in tow sometime before dawn) Then, we toted armloads of wood for the fire.  My body is grateful this day for weather that enforces the stillness to sit and to listen, for it is weary from the 2 days of physical labor that makes me feel soft. Swimming laps in the pool, lifting dumbbells, walking hills, and practising yoga are nothing at all compared to the movement of a body at work.

Perhaps I’ve forgotten to mention the Thunderstorm, who rolled through a few hours after that 80 degree welcoming breeze, the gusty winds that both preceded and trailed him, ushering in the cold blast of his mistress. Perhaps I’ve also forgotten to mention the rolling of carpets, the scrubbing of floors, the moving of sofas, the washing of windows and ceilings and walls.

Did I mention that I love it here?

I love the unpredictability of a world still dependent upon the mood of the sky. I love the immediacy of a world responding to the needs of the moment, the way the water responds to that sky…growing still, being whipped into whitecaps, reflecting blue and then gray.  It helps me, perhaps, to let go of my attempts to control, to surrender to what is, and to simply be. Responsive rather than reactionary. Ready rather than regretful. Real rather than stuck in own ruminations.  Receptive of the gift.

In a strange way, in the midst of it all, I notice something akin to peace.

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M.C. Reardon

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