~Upstream and Down~

Driving home after lunch at a local steak house, my son and I were quiet. My mind wandered. I looked out the window at the naked trees--stiff, brittle, and woody-- but in the late sunlight the bare branches somehow looked soft as grass. Wispy. A giantess could dip the branches into mud makeup and apply color to her humungous cheeks with a tree, I think. I asked David, "If a giant--a really huge one--were standing in the woods, would the trees feel soft to him?" "What do you mean?" "Would the trees feel soft to someone so much bigger than they are? The way moss feels soft to us?" "Moths?" "Mosssssss, " I say. "If something very tiny were driving through a moss forest, the moss might feel stiff and tree-like, even though it's soft to us." "Why would the giant have to be so big, Mom?" he asks, and I think he doesn't understand. "He has to be big enough to step on trees," I say. "There are some ver

You can't hurry love. No, you just have to wait. You got to trust, give it time, No matter how long it takes. (The Supremes) Neither can you hurry spring. I've learned you can't hurry much of anything. Or, rather, you can try , but the results will never be quite what you hoped for. Spring is like a baby waking from a nap. Slowly. Eyes flicker momentarily. More sleep. Another flicker. One eye opens. More sleep, but lighter. Until finally, fully awake, life resumes after a long winter's nap. A week ago a friend and I drove to a pretty place. We had our cameras and hoped for the tease of early spring, which was only a week away, but with both eyes tightly shut, spring still snored. The day was cold with patches of snow in the deep woods, mud in the sun, and varied shades of brown everywhere. Pretty enough for winter's end, but we were impatient for a change. As we chatted in the parking lot before heading home, Lisa gently fingered some soft magnolia buds on th

A couple of days ago, the weather was unseasonably sunny and warm, like a day in May. I reveled in the spring tease, while raking the canvas-like blanket of oak leaves off tender shoots-- pale and yellow--as in need of the sun as I am. But I'd heard the forecast. A "wintery mix" was predicted was for the next day. More snow. Cold and grey . . . like one expects in February in Massachusetts. This isn't going to last, I found myself thinking of the day's beauty. Too bad it's going to snow tomorrow. With the sweet sun warming my shoulders, I thought over and over, too bad it's going to snow tomorrow. Until I caught myself . . . looking ahead, living in the future, instead of the here and now--the only moment in which we exist--the present. So many times I've told my kids, "Don’t worry about tomorrow. Enjoy what you have right now. Don’t ruin today worrying about tomorrow" I managed to take my advice. I spent the rest of the day examining the re

When Christmas was over and I packed up the decorations for another year, I decided not to put the snowmen away. I wasn't quite ready to go from Christmas to normal overnight. It was winter after all, a very snowy one. And I happen to love snowmen. Today with spring's official arrival only two weeks away, I decided to gather up the snowmen and pack them away. One was wearing a scarf of ivy that was stretching in the springlike sun. Enough already. Enough shoveling the driveway, enough four wheel drive, and boots, and ice sidewalks. Enough of the ugly gray patches of snow that edge the roadways. I'm done with snowmen no matter how cute their cheery faces. Maybe when they're in storage winter will recede. Not that I blame my collection of icy men for the weather, mind you. But I'm ready for new green growth, nesting birds, and green grass. Mother nature with her quirky sense of timing, however, has more snow planned even as I pull snowmen from their perches and set