Wednesday, February 19, 2014


One of my daily rituals (I like to call them rituals by the way, it elevates the sense of mystery and intrigue) is to raise the blinds and watch the birds visit the feeder at sunrise. See, how lovely the word ritual makes this (routine, habit, chore) sound? Shift the veil, and really, what I do each week day morning is routine because it is a dance, carefully choreographed, no room for improvisation, or the kids will miss the bus as the toddler tears the blinds to pieces trying to see the birds.

This week there have been slight changes and each has caused me to slow down a beat. The bird song, charms of pragmatic goldfinch, and delicate apricot blossoms; these little gifts give me such joy. February, despite being the shortest month, always seems never ending. Silly thought because we all know February is nothing compared to the interminable nature of March. Cabin fever mixes with one fleeting spring day like today and I start thinking about gardens, bare feet, and leisurely strolls. Yet, there awaits a gauntlet of cold wet muck peppered with tornado warnings to bear before spring shakes her skirts out and leaves her boots in the mudroom. Sigh.

Come with me into the woods where spring 
is advancing, as it does, no matter what,
 not being singular or particular, 
but one of the forever gifts, 
and certainly visible.

Mary Oliver, Dog Songs