The colors of spring in these parts make up for the dreariness of the winter months, and I’m grateful.
I’m looking out on a happy mix of neighborhood trees. Pinks, whites, creams, greens, yellows. There are rainbows and signs of hope just about everywhere. The sun has been blasting its glory lately too.
This means I’ve been living outside.
Eating, drinking, reading, working, planning, playing – all under spring’s bright blue canopy. I’ve been writing outside too. Like I am just now.
Because sometimes you have to go to where the life is.
Where things are budding and growing and turning into something again.
It can end up making us do that very same thing.
Speaking of life, I have three pots all perched in a row towards the end of my driveway. They’re sprouting nutrients.
Brussel Sprouts, romaine lettuce, broccoli. I plan to add a few pots to the line up soon that will house bell peppers, herbs, maybe even some lavender. The grounds of this fixer upper here aren’t willing or ready to welcome edible vegetation as of yet, so my pots will have to do for now.
It’s true that there are seasons that aren’t ideal.
But planting where you’re able will at least reap you something.
It may not be the bounty you imagined, but maybe that’s coming.
For now….plant the pots.
Chirps and bird songs are bellowing out of my magnolias and pines and maples as I type this. I like to think they’re doing it just for me. My very own rhapsody.
I’ve been struck by how they sing all the live long day here, not just at dawn. Although, that is my favorite bit of the whole show.
I feel like Mary Oliver, my favorite poet, would have something precious to say about my backyard birds that give me my daily symphony. I feel like you’d really enjoy what she had to say about them. I almost feel like apologizing. Since she’s no longer earth side, I’ll have to do it for you. I’m the one sitting here in this uncomfortable chair, soaking in sun, listening to those creatures pour life into my eardrums.
Because there comes a time, even when no one is necessarily asking for it, even when no one is seeking out your sayings, even when no one is even looking in your direction – that you have to pick up the pen that was left for you and write the things that bubble over the rim.
For your own good sake. And maybe for theirs, eventually.
I’m learning that writing is honesty for me. It’s what’s true, real, and active. And if I worry more about who’s reading than how I’m writing – I’ve lost it all.
Whatever your dream or genre, keep doing the thing. Purely, honestly, truthfully, sincerely. If someone notices someday, great. If they don’t, at least you’ll know you showed up for what’s true.
My Dad came for a rare sweet visit this past weekend.
He trimmed my trees. They look happier now that they are pruned and directed and freed up a bit.
I cut a few stems from the limbs and put some of the flowering buds in a vase for our learning table. They lit up my life for a while.
As I passed by them, doing some house chore or something, I stopped and pondered my love of nature. Why do I enjoy this type of thing so much? Why do I like to write especially about the world outside of these walls? Even if no one gives a flip about it?
And as I stood there I realized that I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care about the why. I just cared about my being true.
I can finally say after these 35 years that I like liking what I like.