spring comes

but slowly

everywhere I've looked

everywhere I’ve looked lately are reminders of things that already happened. things I loved and things that hurt and I thought:

these are like breadcrumbs to another time, you follow them back. you can find your way back, let the bread be your lifeline. this felt like good news.

I found a pine needle from our Christmas tree while vacuuming last week and remembered the light of the tree, the joy of my children, the warmth of a candle. a breadcrumb to back then.

on a walk with my friend during a blizzard one of the only sounds I could hear over the howl of the wind was birdsong, a warm sound in a winter fury and I remembered last summer and how their chirping woke me up every morning, my face next to the windowscreen. a breadcrumb to back then.

in a drawer, I found a letter a friend wrote to me during study abroad. before we had phones and when we remembered cursive and between the lines of the paper I saw how much we missed each other. a breadcrumb to back then.

then I remembered: in the fables the breadcrumbs get eaten. the children get lost. they can't go back. we can't go back. Christmas is over. last summer happened only once. I lost touch with that friend.

everywhere I look there are reminders of things that already happened and I realized:

eat the crumbs from your palm while you have them, you can't go back, the birds will eat the bread anyway. this feels like good news.

a reflection

a reflection is amazingly, uncomprehendingly simple - a reflection is the return of light or sound.

the return of something already done, back to where you stand.

when you see yourself in a mirror, you aren't seeing an image of yourself. you're seeing all the light that makes you visible to the rest of us.

our eyes are drawn to a reflection by the same law of physics that draws our hearts to affirmation.

the return of light and sound via reflection assures us — you are really here and what you send can be received.

my eyes look at your eyes, and we both see ourselves.

a friend once shared the location of a snowy owl sighting. their hand touched my arm so gently as they told me, their voice just over a whisper. I saw my eyes reflected in theirs and I returned their light in the form of trust: I won’t share your secret, I understand how sacred a bird can be.

someone asked me so earnestly, with true curiosity in their voice — what are your favorite pizza toppings? I saw my eyes reflected in theirs and I returned their light in the form of reciprocity: I'll tell you about myself and I'll ask about you, I understand how being known repels loneliness.

in the lobby at dance class, I laughed with a friend who had, earlier that same day, reached out to consider my feelings. I saw my eyes reflected in theirs and I returned their light in the form of understanding: I see your tender heart, I hold it gently for you while you do the same for me.

a reflection assures us — your light and mine are here at the time same and what you share can be safe with me.

my eyes look at your eyes, and we both see ourselves.

lacustrine

lacustrine (adj.): relating to or associated with lakes.

I learned a new word last week, one of my favorite experiences. lacustrine (having to do with lakes) filled my mouth and my mind.

it's all lacustrine here.

we live on the shore of the greatest lake. you head there for the sunrise, it's the best seat for the sunset, you seek it for its deafening sound and its vast silence. you can't always see it, but you always know it's there.

the word kept expanding in my mind, tidal and wild. maybe because when you've seen a lake this great, you start to see lakes everywhere.

lacustrine like my heart. the kind of small lake that isn't much more than a glorified pond. still and warm, big enough for an adventure but small enough to feel safe, a place where turtles ache for the sun.

lacustrine like my eyes. dark volcanic lakes holding calm, warm water. a portal to the inner workings of the earth, where all the heat and fire are stored until it's time for them to come to the surface.

lacustrine like this love, a waterfall plunge pool carved by years of the constant presence of the water, deeper than either of us could know -- predictable but always moving, sometimes crowned in rainbows when the light hits just right.

lacustrine like our hope. a great body of moving water frozen over by winter chill, filling a space violently carved into the earth by glaciers, giving birth to teeming ecosystems. waiting for the next ice age, but for now a reservoir of life.

it's all lacustrine here.

we live on the shore of the greatest lake, but even if you're landlocked you can find your way to water. find the places in your mind for stone skipping, the secret friendships that feel like skinny dipping, the comfort that is likened to digging your toes in the sand. no matter how arid your surrounding, hold my hand, let's jump in.

it's all lacustrine here.

unraveling yarn

how much time did you spend unraveling yarn today? how long did you pause everything to tend to a knot?

did your coffee grow cold on the table while someone else's wool softened in your hands?

this is the work of loving others enough to care for their yarn despite the fact that you yourself do not know how to knit.

how many minutes did you spend today holding the mess of someone else's tangle. how many moments loosening snags that don't belong to you but have been entrusted to your hands.

did you lose the train of your own thoughts as your fingers faithfully followed each strand until it was free?

this is the work of loving others enough to care for their troubles despite the fact that you yourself have not solved your own.

here, we wait

in April we hear word of spring from places farther south. but here, we wait.

we use our imaginations, which can’t afford to hibernate, to approximate the warmth of spring.

I looked up through the snow covered branches of a leafless tree to see a robin singing her heart out or possibly screaming into the void, and I conjured a warmth that could coax worms out of the still frozen dirt.

I sat at a table with two friends and introduced them for the first time, watching with flushed cheeks as they discovered in each other what I love about both of them, and I daydreamed enough sun to wake crocuses.

I submerged myself in a blazing hot bath as an antidote to the wind blowing a blizzard just on other side of the wall, and I imagined the my pinking of my skin as the sting of summer’s first sunburn.

somewhere else, it’s spring. but here, we wait.

be a cat at the card table.

be a cat at the card table.

expecting to be dealt in even though you have no thumbs and have, up until now, shown no meaningful understanding of the english language.

which is to say: show up wherever someone makes a seat for you. observe anything that interests you even if the world says it’s not for you.

don’t wait until you know the rules to join in the game. the rules are made up, and so is the game for that matter.

don’t avoid your place at the table until you think you have a chance to win, this is just a game after all and they say how you play it is what counts.

be a cat at the card table.

delight us with nothing more than your presence. bring joy by simply appearing as yourself. jump up on the table and destroy the whole game if the mood strikes you. everyone will probably just laugh. because this is just a game and they say how you play it is what counts.

expecting to be dealt in even though you have no thumbs and have, up until now, shown no meaningful understanding of the english language.

which is to say: show up wherever someone makes a seat for you. observe anything that interests you even if the world says it’s not for you.

don’t wait until you know the rules to join in the game. the rules are made up, and so is the game for that matter.

don’t avoid your place at the table until you think you have a chance to win, this is just a game after all and they say how you play it is what counts.

be a cat at the card table.

somewhere

sometimes I fear that I’m made mostly of clenched jaw and dark thoughts. until I crack my eyelids a bit and let a little light in. in the light it’s just me and a sudden burst of optimism that was always in there, somewhere.

I saw a spider walking gingerly across the snow, with nowhere to go. I assume a spider doesn’t have long to live but they kept going anyway without direction or destination powered by some inner knowing to just keep going, somewhere.

the snow finally melted and reminded me that every blizzard made a blanket that slowly waters the daffodils as it drips away. more snow is in the forecast and I can find comfort in it because more plants wait underground for their water, somewhere.

a teenage boy danced his way across the whimsical hopscotch while his friends weren’t looking. which still counts because it means the dance is in there, somewhere.

I'll fly to California to hug you

if my kids don't learn their times tables, they will have more time for a masterclass in friendship.

if you invite me into your heart and into your home, I'll pack light and arrive early.

if you make the scones, I'll do the washing up.

if you say 'I'm in trouble', it's no trouble at all, I’m on my way.

if you laugh at my jokes, I will answer the phone when you call.

if I miss the call, I'll text you instead just to say "what's wrong?????" and every superfluous question mark is a reminder of how much I care.

if you French braid my children's hair, I'll tell our stories and cast you as the hero.

if you tell me when I miss a beat, if you worry when my swagger is gone, I'll tell you if there is a poppy seed in your teeth.

if you say you need to talk and the words won't come, we will listen to the birds hand in hand instead.

my kids don't know their times tables, but they can give you an education in affection.

ways to cope with a long winter or a late spring, depending on your perspective:

(to be taken literally or applied as a metaphor, depending on your need)

bake your favorite cake for absolutely no reason. offer pieces to people who love you. modify the recipe in favor of however you feel about nutmeg. bake the same cake the very next day. save a piece for someone who loves you, but eat it yourself instead.

run the hottest bath you can tolerate, and make it a little hotter than that. slip all the way underwater, making sure your ears are submerged. make friends with the muffled sounds of life. stare at the ceiling as though you’re looking to the sun for her energy. or into a black hole for its gravity. let your mood decide.

write your biggest, quietest dreams down on a series of post it notes. use post its of varied size, shape and color, don’t skip this crucial step and don’t you dare ask me why. write until it is all out of you. put the pen down. you’ll hear your heart beating. pick the pen up. write even more and be bold about it. hand the unruly pile of unarmored notes to a couple of real friends, the kind who’ve seen you cry the kind who make you cry. they’ll hear your heart beating.

keep baking. keep floating. keep writing.

spring comes.