My back gardens have taken on the look of an impressionist painting: all watery-gray and green, with bright patches of blue and yellow that catch my eyes and invite me out into the raw bluster of April. I make quick and shivering visits with the buds and daffodils; my spirit longing to work the soil and tend the flowers, my body hunched and tight against the cold and damp.
The wide tidal river that runs through my town into Long Island Sound is rising, as it does every year when the maple trees flower. It floods and covers meadows and farm fields, swallowing the roots of trees, boat launches, and hiking trails all along its banks. Its rising is a rite of spring.
Luna and I walk our neighborhood and meet people again, people who have been hunkering down and waiting out the winter with its ice and whipping winds are venturing out again to walk the sidewalks and putter in their gardens. We smile, and nod, wave and greet. Reconnection is also a rite.
The small shrubs that will, one day, be a hedgerow, are budding. The forsythia blooms despite the lack of sun and warmth. Sap rises in the trees, agency rises in human hearts. We bend to tend the earth, we rise again for a brighter future. Spring is here, summer is coming. Let us make it a true summer of love.
Courage my dears. Rise together. Stand in your grace. Love one another.
Melina, you make our yard (and *our* world) a wonderland. 💖