3.30.14 In Like A Lion?

Early Sunday morning, birds singing everywhere,

 the snow almost gone-the ground still frozen 

beneath late March mud. 

Buds on Forsythia and Beech and Maple slowly emerging. 

The daylight extending to 7 or 7:30 

so we've eagerly forgotten darkness at 4:30 already,

 so primed we are for

 warmth and growth and sandals and green and sun.

But first? 

Rain and mud and vacillating temperature 

and great surprises and boundless winds sweeping in 

and padding through. 

                                      Our whole 'in like a lion , out like a lamb' thing

                                             either lasted one day, or is delayed. 

                                                                                                                                                       We shall simply have to wait and see. 

While we relish the emergence of Spring.

3.30.14 What can we learn from this?

We learn so much about being here in life, from listening and observing and reading and interchange with others. As I always said to my children, " it's all about the learning curve. "
As we celebrate the range and brilliance of Van Gogh's work, we imagine him in his own small perceived universe, tethered possibly to how life felt to him. And we awaken daily to the reality of learning that , in actuality, we are the one , of being and nothingness, of unlimited possibility- watching ourselves in our misconstrued perception of a seemingly limited life.

A small description of Vincent Van Gogh's life- And aside from his enormous gifts he left behind, brazen and remarkable, all without realizing, for he apparently was so taken by the agony of his internal life, still, the question I ask is - What can we learn about ourselves, from this?

"It's the birthday of Vincent Van Gogh, born in Zundert, Holland (1853). He's the painter of sunflowers and starry nights whose work was just beginning to be acknowledged when he committed suicide at the age of 37. His brother Theo was an art dealer, and for years he had supplied Van Gogh with a small monthly stipend; in return, Van Gogh gave his brother every canvas he painted. He wrote thousands of letters to Theo. In one letter he wrote: "How much sadness there is in life. The right thing is to work." He moved to a small town north of Paris and painted feverishly until insanity overtook him. Two days before he died, he wrote: "I feel a failure. That's it as far as I'm concerned — I feel that this is the destiny that I accept, that will never change."

The Writer's Almanac

3.29.14 March Winds, Right?

Seems just about now 

that March winds come on the scene , 

big time, right ?

3.29.14 Spring- Along Day

Maple buds bright and red, 

over the reflection of its branches

 in the Connecticut's outwaters

 on this rainy dark spring-along day

3.28.14 There Is No Upside Down

Sometimes I pause , and remember that this-

 this is a view from one tiny place on an enormous round spinning planet;

that the light and heat and, hence, life -come from a far away star.

That , like The Little Prince, here we are - glued by gravity to the land.

For, no matter where you stand in space, truly, there is no upside down .

3.28.14 Swirled Skies

Swirled Spring skies with a hint of much needed rain

3.28.14 Satiated By Land and Forest and Season

Today was such a dark wet day of early spring beauty; the soothing sounds of rain upon the roof and against windows as we rested , cozy, inside. 
Eventually , though , the year old pup couldn't handle Fall Over Friday one more moment, so boots were pulled over wool socks, scarf wrapped round neck, raincoat tugged over polar fleece, as he danced about in anticipation .
The big treat ( Hey- dog- do a good job coming back inside and here's what you get) was in evidence, as the back door opened, and out at least one of us bounded. 

As the fields are now bared of snow , their ticks eagerly awaiting better fare than field mouse, we cut through bramble and blackberry, as we tromped on into the woods.
Green mosses and mycelium of so many colors and genus grew here and there across the woods, while the Witch Hazel held out their delicate seeds pods and the shining River Birch gleamed with their seeds.
Much evidence of active spring-is-wandering- this-way creature activity was in evidence everywhere , as well as burds and squirrels courting, and hawks trilling to one another, as we headed down the forest hill toward the ridge .
There, we could gaze at the still snow and ice covered outwaters; at the farmer's river- rich fields beyond. 

I often stop in the woods to remove fallen branches or trees from between trunks of a tree, and Dante has become an enthused companion, pulling vigorously at the rotted limbs stuck up in trees, or braking apart fallen trees to liberate bent over younger ones, his delight palpable as he wrestles with each disengaged piece.
A very chilled but not freezing cold Bruegel-like feel to the stark greys of barks and rich reds of composting Oak leaves, finally fallen as Spring makes it's approach , contributing to the rich loam that mulches and protects the forest floor.
I stopped to taste the rain drops lingering in Beech branches, small mirrors of the world around them, glistening in the late afternoon light. 

And then, having been satiated by land and forest and season and trudging up and down forested land, we both clambered once again through prickly brambles and tangled bittersweet, to fall in an exhausted heap once happily home.