I rise these days with the sun. The alarm has been set aside. I walk instead of swim. I’ve become reacquainted with my neighborhood. The pulse of spring rife with birdsong flows around me like the water of the pool used to. Daffodils are leaving the main stage and tulips have made their entrance. Two weeks ago, an apple tree with furled cocoon-like leaves and tight, cream colored buds is now a riotous white and green harbinger of late summer delight. Last week I walked to the highest point in our neighborhood to see the pink moon grazing tree tops. No sense of hurry—the moon or I.
Grief's Dance Card, Loss Reminders, and Compass Points
Spring is making an early appearance in the Pacific NW and I suppose I am happy about that. The daffodils are starting to bloom and daffodils of all ilk were my mother’s and are one of my favorite flowers. Our winter has been wet, but no bitter cold snaps and snow has remained in the mountains where I prefer it. I’ve relished the long, dark nights and even the endless days of January rain didn’t bother me while many of my friends shared feelings of being sucked into a gray cloud the size of the state of Oregon. So, I guess I’m happy spring is less than four weeks away.
