Tumult. It’s warm one day, snowing the next. Wind blowing, then warm sun melting the ground. The bulbs, the birds, the insects, all marching slowly toward the return of vibrant summer heat.
I need my mittens, I’ve forgotten them. My hands are cold on the walk to school, and one child accompanies each side of me, holding a hand, wiggling their clutching contact into my jacket pockets, unaware they are doing the same thing, simultaneously. What have I done to deserve such sweetness?
In the shade, we shiver, my youngest utters a whine. My oldest, soldiering on with the earliest armor of maturity, “Gotta deal with it, buddy. Take a breath.” I recognize my timbre.
Four more steps and the tree-filtered sun gives promise. Three more, and I sink into that feeling of warmth, just glancing off my head and neck. In my heart’s heart, I know it will be ok. This cold–this season of unrest will pass.
We will soldier on.We will deal. We will breathe. We will sink into the joy, when it is to be found. We will wait for it, when it is partially hidden. We will warm ourselves when we cannot find it.
That is when we will strive to collect all our harvested bits. We will gather them together, bringing what each of us has, and we will make it ourselves. We make our own joy, while we wait for the kiss of the sun’s warming light. Soon enough, we will be gathering in shade, dreaming of the snow’s reprieve, the capped mountains in the distance, and the certainty of the rhythmic seasons as each one comes, and goes.
Photograph: Frost patterns found on my porch, 2/22/2017
