Greening

It’s April first. I wake up thinking, first, the writing. I know that writing means jumping up to let the dog out, let the dog in, feed the cat. I know that writing means waking up when it’s cold or dark out, but more to the point, fighting off the sleep in a warm bed. It means believing in myself, believing that regardless of whether I’m “good enough” (whatever arbitrary thing that means), this is something that I love, that makes me more me, and that feeds me in a way all the sugar in the world can’t feed me – that can make me feel better than any red wine. Writing, or maybe I should say whoever I am when I’m writing, is like a best friend that I love to spend time with, no mater what else is happening in my life. I don’t do it for other people, but I do it for myself, and when I am fulfilled in that way, it’s easier to be generous. And of course, it helps that the world is greening, buds of brightness coming out of every tiny branch of our little oak tree, which D. planted from an acorn, the iris swords about to be joined by stalk and flower, the lilacs returning from the dead in a way that works for me as well as remembering Jesus no longer in a cave might work for some to foster hope. 

Because it’s April first, and it’s also Easter, and I have pulled out all of our Easter things from the blue bin up in the attic: enough baskets for the Von Trapp family, 

crafts the kids made when they were little, two puppets my mother made, little cloth rabbits 

             

and little ceramic rabbits, and dozens of plastic eggs. I will dust the surfaces of the house and spread out the little bit of candy I bought this year – what’s left of it after a couple of evening binges, I should say – and I will create a hunt for the mostly-adult kids who will be awake or back home or coming over for brunch. And I’ll make brunch. Welsh cakes, and bacon and eggs, and potatoes and cantaloupe. Lots of coffee, and potentially, mimosas, since I have the ingredients. Later in the day, I’ll go to a hive inspection (having inspected my own two beehives Friday). 

Little Oak Hive March 30, 2018

I’ll start to gather items for a garage sale that S. will have to raise money for tracker school, grateful for the opportunity to lighten the load and lessen the belongings, even though I know it means the living room will be a temporary dumping ground of stuff for a week. And I’ll write. April is National Poetry Month, and again, I think, as good a month as any to (re)start a more serious daily habit of writing. And sending poetry out. Here, for the record, are the goals: write at least 30 minutes daily (60 is better); blog at least once a week (daily is better); send out at least 5 poems at least once a week (daily, too, would be a fun exercise, if I could find venues that I wanted to be published in enough who are currently accepting poems to make it happen). In the light of this cool, quiet morning, with everyone else asleep and the pets behaving, it seems so do-able.  I’m at the magical moment when I’ve just finished my first cup of coffee and I know a second is coming – the absolute prime moment of optimism for me, every day.  So of course it seems do-able. As doable as meditating daily (which I have been doing, briefly, and sometimes in a prone position, but still…) or losing that pesky post-menopausal ten pounds, or scrimping together enough money to pay of credit cards and someday have a house in the country. It all seems doable at the moment. May it be so as well once the caffeine wears off!