Long days, bright sun

I'm getting this in under the wire since I have no other entries for March. March is the cruelest month, a time of weather extremes--from blustery winds and snow to the monsoon style rains we've had in recent days. But that will be over tomorrow as April ushers in bright sunshine and mild temperatures.

Tonight was a writer's coffeehouse at the school where I teach. The young writers displayed poise, and impressive range in their pieces. I am proud of them for putting their work out there. It takes a lot for a young adult to get up on a stage and read a poem or work of fiction. I see growth in how they encourage each other, even coaching each other to breathe and slow down.

Outside the magnolia and forsythia are budding. I have the beginnings of daffodils in my garden. Nothing can remain the same. My students evolve as writers and the world around them opens up. Suddenly they see what they missed before--a homeless man standing outside the post office, a father teaching his young daughter to swim, changing skies. It's all there--the dark and the light, the necessary and the ignored. Sometimes I am a guide pointing the way. Other times I'm just looking out the window.

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?

Shy Animals

How lucky to see a fox with a lustrous golden coat napping under a tree. When he awakened, he looked at me without fear, only curiousity. It occurs to me that there is always life, seen or unseen. In the winter landscape, life is evasive. Morning walks yield the bare knuckles of brush and tree branches. The occasional pine seems overshadowed by bare and reaching oak and ash. I strayed from the path, finding bridges, stone walls, and sometimes just the sign of an animal who has a kind of comfort with the woods that I will never have. Instead I look for ways to describe the stillness and the hidden pulse of life just ahead of me.

Vermont in late December

Shadows and Promises

The snow covered everything. Tiny bushes were adorned. It was too icy to ski and so we walked in a state park in Vermont. A promised Nature Center never appeared though we walked up and up a path with a steep incline that narrowed and then disappeared. We imagined that perhaps the trail itself was a nature center or that an overzealous park ranger created the signs to inspire the less ambitious hikers to stretch and log more miles. It was the warmest day of the week. When the biting cold moved in, recreation became an indoor adventure. Still I strive to understand what I might learn from the shadows of sunlight on snow and the promises of a vista that never appears. The Green Mountains rose all around us and the air was cold and clear. I felt a sense of unrest; almost like foreboding. I know the upcoming year will bring many changes. I can feel it in my bones. When the restlessness settles over me, I must put one foot in front of the other and keep walking. I know there will be a clearing and whatever is supposed to happen will present itself, perhaps up a steep incline or maybe around the corner.