Early March pulls a fast one:
And in two weeks' time, we are left with the melt-mud and debris.
But somewhere in that soggy mess, hope springs forward, determined.
Somehow I knew, as I was taking these photos, these would be among the last of my tree. Just as I knew when it was the last of my shrubbery... for we have learned that we must move yet again. Our landlords claim it is so that they can allow a needy family member to occupy the space; but this mama's intuition knows it is because our household is noisier than most.
I had intimated that there was something wrong with my boy, something off and something far-too-on; but at long last, we've received a diagnosis, and a direction. (Even though to this mama, we are traveling with leaden shoes, but even so at least our toes are pointing forward this time.)
This diagnosis give a name to our daily struggles, our constant state of exhaustion and weary wondering-why; but the landlords don't want to hear it (though they have plenty to say about my parenting style-- "you spoil him", "he's just a boy", "he's an only child", "you yell too much", "he yells too much"...), and they certainly don't want their retirement bothered by the noise of it... Though I have sat here in this very spot each day wondering how to put up with the cacophony of their daily battles, the things they don't think I can hear, the things I really don't want to hear...
In the midst of this personal debris, in the course of just a few weeks there have been political uprisings-- some ending in joy, others in horror; there have been several defeats on our own soil, the working wo/man losing rights for the benefit of corporate America, under the guise of budgetary reform; and there have been two devastating earthquakes, one on each side of our planetary axis. It is nearly too much to bear.
Struggle is the essence of this life, yet beauty persists in spite of it... or more likely, because of it. I become consumed by my grief and my overwhelm, and yet there are the crocus, and there are the snow-drop, there are the forsythia, their soft petals pushing back on my gloom with more force than the weight of winter. How do they do it, each year, these gentle creatures? From where do they inherit their strength? In the hummus of destruction, comes the answer.
Growth finds a fissure in the strangle of debris, and at length, we find flowers.
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