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Rain articulates the skin of everything,
pink of bricks from the fire they baked in,
lizard green leaves,
the wrinkled tongues of pine cones.
It's accurate the way we never are,
bringing out what's best
without changing a thing.
---Excerpt from "The Weight of Oranges" by Anne Michaels
My days have been fugues lately. Or perhaps they have always been and I have only become more keenly aware of it. I look through spring as if it were a kaleidoscope. It is my habit since childhood. I find myself focused on the smallest details, the imperceptible threads that tie me to my surroundings. This is what sitting on the ground under a solstice sun does to you, I suppose. It's a natural reaction to feeling the earth in my hands again. I have begun my garden anew; sewing purple calla lilies and holly ferns in place of winter's shade, tending the tender seedlings at my windowsill. I will have musk melons, cucumbers, ripe cherry tomatoes, okra, and blackberries. I smell the promise of the harvest all around me, through me, connected with the renewed sense of wonder at each minute step along the way. My mother accepts me back to her each spring and for that I am thankful. I am thankful that the circle always comes 'round to remind me that I am not floating free, but that I am tethered by earth and love to what sustains my spirit. My dogwood tree has begun to bloom, and the rain is warm enough some mornings to bathe in while the deer watch from behind their trees. This is my communion. It is enough for me. Because it is everything.
pink of bricks from the fire they baked in,
lizard green leaves,
the wrinkled tongues of pine cones.
It's accurate the way we never are,
bringing out what's best
without changing a thing.
---Excerpt from "The Weight of Oranges" by Anne Michaels
My days have been fugues lately. Or perhaps they have always been and I have only become more keenly aware of it. I look through spring as if it were a kaleidoscope. It is my habit since childhood. I find myself focused on the smallest details, the imperceptible threads that tie me to my surroundings. This is what sitting on the ground under a solstice sun does to you, I suppose. It's a natural reaction to feeling the earth in my hands again. I have begun my garden anew; sewing purple calla lilies and holly ferns in place of winter's shade, tending the tender seedlings at my windowsill. I will have musk melons, cucumbers, ripe cherry tomatoes, okra, and blackberries. I smell the promise of the harvest all around me, through me, connected with the renewed sense of wonder at each minute step along the way. My mother accepts me back to her each spring and for that I am thankful. I am thankful that the circle always comes 'round to remind me that I am not floating free, but that I am tethered by earth and love to what sustains my spirit. My dogwood tree has begun to bloom, and the rain is warm enough some mornings to bathe in while the deer watch from behind their trees. This is my communion. It is enough for me. Because it is everything.
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