Late February and changeable weather. Mild days hinting of spring turn overnight into wintry sleet and rain. But one cold, damp, gray morning recently, I stepped out the front door and heard the shift in birdsong that always says “spring.” I’ve been searching the garden beds near the house, looking for those first green nubs of crocuses and snow drops. Yesterday I spotted about 1/4 inch of tender green foliage —the first sign of early blooming crocuses.
I haven’t posted for several weeks—the world has felt heavy, especially after the Parkland school shooting. I alternate between feeling deep sadness and anger. I read, I absorb, my heart sinks, aches—not again, not again. At meditation group recently, we listened to a guided meditation from Tara Brach, titled Resting in Reality. “Greet each moment with kindness,” she says.
I find that challenging right now—but as the days move forward I try to travel gently through the world, to rest in this here and now.
As I do, I notice:
The moon between tree branches on a cool, bright late afternoon walk.
Sun coming in my front window, glinting off a blue pot, blue mug, blue book cover—an accidental still life
Sensory memory that kicks in when I make bread for the first time in years—the feeling on my hands of sticky, elastic dough as I knead and later punch it down, shape it into loaves; the fragrance of baking; the crumb and taste of the first warm slice slathered with butter.
The ease that washes over me as I listen to a musical setting of Wendell Berry’s poem “The Peace of Wild Things.”