Signs of Life

The past two days have hinted at the thaw; a time New Englanders sense by the smell of mud and grass, skies speckled with returning birds. Though more snow is predicted this week, it feels as if we're headed solidly toward the season of growing. Today mild breezes and sun were dominant forces and it's hard to think of mounds of snow and shivering mornings. By the end of February, I tire of gray, dream of small buds pushing through the intractable earth. I remember the bulbs that sit just below the surface, how tenacious they are in the whimsy of late March and early April. I've seen crocuses crowned with ice crystals and daffodils blooming in a snow-filled garden. Nature is filled with opposing forces. Much as I try to find something to love about a colorless sky, I welcome change. It is an advantage of living here--the variability of the seasons. The full spectrum of color awaits. I pull on my jacket and boots and head outside to watch and wait.

Beauty

I've been thinking about the transcient nature of beauty. I'm in awe of certain works of art--music, painting, literature. I take too much for granted--the swaying trees I see outside my window, the pine-studded hill across the street. I'm in the process of redefining. Although I teach beauty, I often miss it in my own life--the weathered face of my mechanic, the trickle and rush of the river. Sometimes a moment happens in my writing group--a kind of synergy where we are quiet with delight at what one of us has created. I feel pride that I'm a part of this--that I have the ability to translate what I see and feel into words. Whether I gain any more recognition for this is less important than why I write. I write to understand. I write to honor myself and the world around me. I used to think it was narcisstic to be a writer. Now I feel much the opposite. Tapping into emotion is what artists do, and listeners, readers all receive--an introspective moment, comfort, the feeling that there is a common humanity. I want beauty to be abundant, not limited to fleeting images of dark eyes, perfect skin, curved petals. How stingy our culture can be in its definition of beauty. How can I broaden my own world to embrace imperfection? Can I see the height and depth of loneliness, the width of a promise?