We’ve all got the fever at my house, everyone is restless, even the animals. Yesterday was a gorgeous day, especially for March, sunny and almost 60 degrees. Every bone in my body wanted to go running, except for my right knee which has staged an all-out revolt and is no longer my ally.
And so, no running. I raked a little, as much as a girl who can’t bend much, or squat at all, could do. I sat in the sun and listened to the red-winged blackbirds chirp about how much they wished I would go back inside so they could eat in private. I took 323 pictures, and I smiled, on the inside, all day.
I found my happy place, apparently it has been hiding outside, in my garden. I felt my heart stretch after months of cringing, my body relaxed, my mind wandered, little pieces of my soul danced on the breeze. And I wasn’t even out there for very long.
It was just long enough to restore my faith in progress, the moving forward, the changing scene. Long enough to allow myself to stand still and breathe in the scent of earth, the call of bird, the blanket of sky. I wrapped myself in its warmth and carried it back inside.
I feel it still, cradling me, as I whisper these thoughts to the moon.
I will keep it close by my side for a while longer, as surely there will be more snow, more cold, more rain, more grey.
But it’s March and there are birds singing and buds on trees and tiny green shoots poking tiny green heads up through the ground.
Soon it will be time to shake out that blanket, fold it ever-so-gently, and pack it away.
For now, I’ll take these days as the gifts they are, and hold them carefully in hands dry and brittle from a too-long, too dark winter.
Grateful for the prettiness of promise, the reassurance of renewal,
fine wrappings for the platitudes of life.