Little flower, but if I could understand what you are, root and all in all, I should know what God and man is.
~ Tennyson
Am I root, or am I bud? Am I stem or am I leaf? All in all, these are not me
but signs of God’s fruiting glory.
I am but the tears He shed as He broke
into blossom.
In Summer, in a burst of summertime
Following falls and falls of rain,
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of
Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime;
~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “Cheery Beggar”
Sweet and sour extends far beyond a Chinese menu; it is the daily air I breathe. Dichotomy is so much of my life and times, more distinct than the bittersweet of simple pleasures laced with twinges and tears.
I am but a cheery beggar in this world, desiring to hang tight to the overwhelming sweetness of each glorious moment — the startling sunrise, the lush green and golden blooms following spring showers, the warm hug of a compassionate word, the house filled with love and laughter. But as beggars aren’t choosers, I can’t only have sweet alone; I must endure the sour that comes as part of the package — the deepening dark of a sleepless night, the muddy muck of endless rain, the sting of a biting critique, the loneliness of an home emptying and much too quiet.
So I slog through sour to revel some day, even more so, in sweet. Months of manure-permeated air is overcome one miraculous morning by the unexpected and undeserved fragrance of apple blossoms, so sweet, so pure, so full of promise of the fruit to come. The manure makes the sweet sweeter.
And I breathe in deeply, content and grateful for a moment of grace and bliss, wanting to hold it in the depths of my lungs forever.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring’s unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
~William Wordsworth
Sequester has a different meaning these days — a “take no prisoners” government withholding of funds it hadn’t collected to begin with.
I prefer the “hidden away for safe-keeping” definition — exactly how I feel when I walk into the orchard. I am cloistered in blossoms exuberant with potential.
Sequestered nook. Words and times change but the essence of spring’s promise never does.
The roofs are shining from the rain,
The sparrows twitter as they fly,
And with a windy April grace
The little clouds go by.
Yet the back yards are bare and brown
With only one unchanging tree–
I could not be so sure of Spring
Save that it sings in me.
– Sara Teasdale, April
Here we are, closing in on mid-April and it has been a week of heavily drifting snowstorms in the plains, tornado weather in the south, and blustering wind and rain in the northwest. I am not so sure of Spring nor is anyone else.
Yet it sings in me. Yes it sings.
The calendar does not lie, nor does my nose. The pollen counts are rising despite the rains and as I step outside in early dawn, I can catch the slightest fragrance of just-opening cherry and apple blossoms in the orchard. Within a week there will be sweet perfume in the air everywhere and the fruit trees become clothed in white puffy clouds of blossom before bursting full into green.
In defiance of the calendar, our oak trees cling stubbornly to their brown bedraggled fall leaves as if ashamed to ever appear naked, even for a week. In May they will go straight from brown to green without a moment of bare knobby branches.
Even so, it sings in me. Yes it sings.
A morning bird symphony tunes up ever earlier including the “scree” and chatter from bald eagles high up in the fir trees surrounding our house. Nesting has begun despite the wet and cold and wind because their nest is the secure home that calls them back, again and again, year after year.
Like them, it sings in me. Yes it sings.
I rise opening like a bud, I dress my nakedness to cover up my knobbiness, I wander about outside exulting in the free concert, I manage to do chores despite the distractions — this routine of mine which is so unchanging through the calendar days becomes glorious gift and privilege.
Hopefulness sings in me in Spring. Yes it sings.
April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
~Edna St. Vincent Millay
“Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
A rainy summer yields abundant shade-loving blossoms. Continuous cloud cover and plenty of moisture may subdue a summer mood but not in the case of begonias, fuchsia, and impatiens. Their vivid colors are happily chanting playground rhymes, when not singing arias, reciting epic poetry, and laughing uproariously while partying hardy into the night.
If they were fragrance instead of colors, they would be a perfume shop full of perfectly coiffed matrons who trail scents behind them. If they were tactile instead of colors, they would be plush velveteen cushions topped with purring cats with switching tails. If they were taste instead of colors, they would be spice and pepper-hot to the point of tears.
Their reckless blooming abandon is enough in itself to make me weep, without noisy parties, chilis, heavy scents, or ruffled cat fur needed.
No sun required. No tropical temperatures. No promise of 18 hours of daylight.
They simply have enough of what they need to give all they’ve got. All I need to do is show up, open my eyes and believe.
Barnstorming 