I’m listening to Margaret Renkl read her book, THE COMFORT OF CROWS: A BACKYARD YEAR. Some days it’s the only thing that keeps my head from exploding.
Every couple of essays, she tucks in a praise song. Now it’s my turn. Here’s my Praise Song to Early Spring.
I live in one of the top 10 gloomiest cities in the country. When the skies are clear, and the blue makes me just want to drink up every drop of it, going for a walk is the best therapy I could wish for.
The trees are bursting with the same joy I feel. They are sure of what they need to do, and they are going about their work without an ounce of self-consciousness. Why on earth should we NOT just fling our reds and yellows toward that juicy blue sky with everything we’ve got?
Early spring gives away glimpses of secret lives if you’re paying close attention. Like Margaret says,
To pay close attention to the natural world is to exist in medias res. Life is an unfolding that responds to the cues of seasonal change, but for our purposes it is also suspended in an everlasting present. We can see some of the creatures we share our world with, or at least some evidence of their nearness, but we cannot know the full arc of their story. Every encounter in the outdoors is an episode with a cliffhanger ending.
The quote above is as true about the humans with whom we share our world as it is about our more-than-human neighbors. There’s a cemetery at the far end of our street, and it’s a quiet place to walk, say names, wonder at dates, and give thanks for life — all of it, surging so gloriously outside of us in early spring, and surging inside of us for as long as we’re given. Spring reminds me to not waste a single moment of this gift.
A(nother) Year of Reading 