Is it spring yet? I think so. But the May snow in Denver and the 37onight temperatures here in the DC suburbs belie what the calendar says is the arrival of my favorite month of the year.
Is it spring yet? The tulips in the neighborhood say so…everywhere but in front of my house. Last year I planted bulbs in my flowerbed and my neighbor’s, whose husband had taken a fall that prevented her from getting to her flowerbed. But this year the deer ate mine and left the ones in front of my neighbor’s house to bloom a glorious red and tilt their blossoms at me mockingly every time I walk out my front door.
Is it spring yet? I think of e.e. cummings, that quirky poet who wrote about an ordinary spring:
spring when the world is mud-
when the world is puddle-wonderful
The world has seemed more mud than luscious, more puddle than wonderful to me this year. I’ve had some difficult days this spring, as we all do from time to time, with tears of sadness and disappointment sometimes overwhelming me. My emotions have followed the ephemeral pattern of the weather—sometimes slipping back to winter, sometimes reaching to grasp a spring that’s elusive, sometimes gloriously hopeful at the promise of new life.
When I think of cummings’ poem and his quirky capitalization that says it’s Just- spring, I realize that nothing is ever completely Just in this luscious, wonderful world.
Last weekend at the beach I wrote a blog that said, “I’m going to go take a walk on the beach now. And though it’s just an ordinary spring day on the Outer Banks, I know that I’ll revel in the sensory experience of that resplendent ocean.”
And do you know what happened on that ordinary walk? I saw something I’d never seen in all the years I’ve strolled on that beach in Duck—starfish scattered here and there, thrown onto the sands by the waves.
Some of the starfish had lost an arm or the tip of a point, and I was reminded that, unlike us humans, starfish can regenerate an entire limb if they survive the crisis that caused the loss. I was reminded, too, of that syrupy starfish story—one that I love in spite of its cheesiness—about the man who futilely throws the creatures back into the ocean because it makes a difference for each one that he’s able to help.
I tossed one or two back into the waves, but most of all, I was reminded by their presence that every day has the potential to be Just a little bit out of the ordinary—and maybe even ExtraOrdinary.
is it Just-spring yet? is your world mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful?