To Fly and Disperse

To suddenly smell life in the air, soil thawing, remnants of startled skunks, a shimmer and whiff of pine, is to realize you weren't really breathing all that deeply for an entire winter. Lacey spiders, not quite see through but not quite pigmented either, begin emerging from the horizon of wall meeting ceiling. Daffodil shoots become green fingers praising creation and clumps of snowdrops bloom around the creek.

These first tastes of spring ignite something automatic and ancient in my awareness. The yearning to plant or even to simply be in the dirt begins to tingle at the surface of my skin. I remember feeling this way as early as 6 or 7 years old. On the lake, ice would honeycomb and disappear every few hours. The sun seemed to remove some sort dull film from itself to reveal a sharper intensity. I sat on the lake-facing deck apart from the yet-icy breezes and lose all sense of self, as if the sun was peeling away my skinned boundaries and releasing everything that has always wanted to fly and disperse. This sun worship after hibernation is by far my favorite and most clear memory of childhood.

My household was chaotic, very loud and busy. My siblings and I were always going to practice, doing homework, or fighting for a spot in the bathroom. Soccer, softball, swimming, basketball, volleyball, tennis lessons, CCD classes at church, chores – all downtime was time stolen. All alone time still included the sounds of a loud kitchen or brothers fighting, or parents disciplining children. Existence was like running out of breath underwater and struggling to surface.

Yet if I could at least see or feel the sun on my skin, even for five minutes, I had the hope of pure silence. I had boundless freedom. I could sense my molecules buzzing towards lift off, into the air, mingling with trees like piano notes on the breeze, skimming the dazzling surface of the newly ruffled lake.

Warmth after winter. Light into spring. How still I could be in this worship! How happy.

It's still like this. I still find protected spots in February's transition and face spring-angled sun beams. Despite the tomb of winter, Mother Earth never stops humming the hymn Nothing is Dead.

This time of year it is difficult to stay in the moment. The relief of winter's end is joyous, but that is already past. The anticipation of planting gardens and flowers is exhilarating, but that is future.

But right here, right now, this beginning of March with snow still on the ground, the sunlight breaks through the gray dirge of sky and spirit to touch that which has been cold for months.

And I am free.

And happy.