2.28.13       Filled With The Sublime

       

     Some days you just know will be daunting. And then at the end of the day, yes, you are daunted. Maybe the next day too.

     Possibly there occurs a blend of an anticipated long work day, together with a braise of two appointments, one of which ends up odd and curdled,  then a pinch of a last client at the tail end of the mix, folded into the  loveliness of the partner pickup, with still the unrelenting exhaustion and overwhelm, garnished with some bits of  a very sad and  unnecessary four-footed death texted to you that you notice while working on two bouncing dogs in your waiting room, the text regarding a vets choice to immunize a very old feline, which so predictably ended their sweet furred life.

     And you take note that none of this involves living in a war torn country, waking to unrelenting poverty, violence, or mean spirited looks simply upon noting your appearance.

     None of this involves you or a loved one struggling with a life threatening condition or living on the cusp of homelessness.

     Nor does it involve the reality of you, along with most others living beings, living with the invisible remnants of often-unimaginable experience, which, like lichen on a tree, quietly impacts still our every day.

     Yet this morning, as you tend to bird and squirrel foods, ushering an old dog out into the fogged early morning, you spot one  alert young Crow sentry perched at the very apex of the Aspen, who spies the awaited blue compost bucket, and excitedly swings off to alert their posse.

     You wind your way up the path through the snow to dump the bucket, slipping in clogs, bare feet beneath,  ankles that kiss hello to the shrinking snows on either side. You hear the calls of the adolescent Crows playing and dancing their way through the last  of February's skies, delightedly flying over to your compost pile for discarded vegetarian sausage, bits of gluten free pizza, and tossed seasoned green beans, on such a warm, survivable day.

     And here is the thing: what can you say to a moss carpet that lingers all winter long, lush and fragrant, beneath any snows? What can you say to passing by fledgling forsythia buds, daily and irrepressibly ripening? What can you say to a mist-ensconced morning where the Fir and Pine are half hidden in the life-giving wet?

     To the turn of the path, the daily discovery of the distant view, hills far off, far beyond the unseen Connecticut River that lies below you, beneath this tree line, pressing its powerful way onward to the sea?

     To the pink and light blue and purple this day has come up with to coat the sky and sheath the still bare Oak branches overhead?

     At times, the merest hint of life fills us with the sublime.