Blog

Meditation, Nature, Poetry

Looking downstream

Early crocuses are blooming, daffodils are pushing through, buds are swelling on shrubs and trees. Even on chilly days the sun feels stronger. 

Spring feels especially poignant and necessary this year. After so many months of loss and change, I need the new growth, the lingering light, the quickening bird song. 

Patches of snow and ice linger in the woods but a favorite path is clear and dry. Each day this week I’ve walked this path that winds along a stream in full spate with snow and ice melt. I stop at a bridge, lean on the railing, and let the sound of water quiet my mind. I should write a poem, I think, and then realize that this—the sound of water over rocks, the glinting sun, the green boughs—is already a poem.

Garden, Home, Poetry

Flowers, glorious flowers

In this New England valley, spring first arrives in the form of bulb shows at two local colleges. For two weeks in early March, when the ground outside is often still buried in piles of old, icy snow and the wind still pierces through winter coats, students at Mt. Holyoke and Smith fill greenhouse spaces with displays of spring bulbs and flowers of every type, hue, and scent.

A friend and I usually gravitate to the Mt. Holyoke show at Talcott Greenhouse—smaller and less crowded than the Smith show and every bit as lush. This year a collaborative sculpture spanned the length of the room, representing the three seasons that students are at school, fall leaves becoming winter snow and then spring blooms.

As always, the first thing I notice as I enter the space is the scent of hyacinth, narcissus, and damp earth. I pause and absorb the color and light and scent before making my way slowly down one aisle and up the next then around again, this time taking pictures—oh so many pictures. For twenty minutes, my body lets go of its wintertime hunch and shrug.

I come home from the bulb show to my snow covered garden and devour the pictures I’ve taken, hungry for the light and color.

But gradually in the following days, as temperatures moderate and the snow recedes, I begin my daily  search of garden beds, cheering when the first green shoots of crocuses appear and then the first small purple blossom, the nubs of Hellebore blooms, and more and more green shoots poke through.

This poem from Jean Connor speaks to the season of yearning and waiting and remembering.

And finally, a link to a song I’ve been listening to, I Arise Facing East, from Cindy Kallet, Ellen Epstein, and Michael Cicone.

Family, Friends, Grief, Uncategorized

Lapis for love, for friendship

Welcome to the new home for my blog. I will continue to post short musings, reflections, glimpses of day-to-day life, and garden updates. I might also branch out. Thoughts about writing? Poems that move me? Links to music? Book reviews? Anything is possible so stay tuned.

*********

I recently met a new friend for coffee. I was feeling shy, as I sometimes do, so I wore the lapis earrings that once belonged to my friend Fran, who died in 2006.

A couple of years before Fran died, when she was in the middle of living with an aggressive cancer, she and her husband travelled to the southwest. She returned with lapis earrings for her friends—the ones she gave me were shaped like small fish. Lapis for love, for friendship, she said.

I wore them one winter day not long after she gave them to me. I had on a high-collared coat and scarf. When I got in my car at the end of a meal with friends, I realized I was missing an earring. I poked through piles of slush around the car, groped under and around the car seats, went back inside the restaurant to search our booth. No earring. I was bereft.

After Fran died, her husband invited her friends to choose items from her jewelry box. I immediately spotted a pair of lapis earrings she’d bought for herself on that southwestern trip and took them home with me; I wear them often, especially when I feel like I need a friend’s helping hand.

Shortly before Fran died, we talked about death and dying. Was there an afterlife? We were both skeptical. But I remembered the experience I’d had after my mom died, the strong sense all that summer that mom was near me as I navigated buying a house, moving, making a nest for myself, all while grieving for her. I told Fran about this. If there is an afterlife, will you come back and let me know? I joked.

I’ve had no Fran sightings. Just memories and the earrings.

Things have power. My sister died in December; in January I flew to England for her IMG_0371funeral, which took place in the village church just down the lane from the house she’d lived in for over forty years. She was buried next to her husband in the cemetery behind the church.

I both dreaded and welcomed the funeral—dreaded being far away from home when I needed the comfort of friends, welcomed the opportunity to say good-by to my sister in the place she most loved.

On the day of the funeral, I wore a necklace that had belonged to my mother, a scarf my sister gave me, earrings my mom had given me. Wearing these items I could feel my mother and sister standing on either side of me, holding me in that cold church and then at the grave high on a bright chilly hill.