The Arc and its Covenant

Last night, a flash of light punctuated itself between the slats of our blinds, followed by thunder--low and rumbly.  It was all I could do not to trip over Mark's outstretched feet as I tore open the front door, breathing in the metallic scent of something both ancient and new. 

Already drunk from successive days of southerly winds and bright, sunlit afternoons, the evening's prelude for spring storms left me thick-tongued and delirious. 

Such are the effects of earth's rotation within the vast universe, the orb's spring-ward arc and its beloved covenant.  

Early last month, I decided to alter this year's calendar, pushing New Year's Eve to March 10, 2021, a year to the day when I shed the last of my innocence.  By dinnertime the following night, I'd learn that Tom Hanks was holed up in Australia, with something called COVID-19, and I felt a subtle yet seismic shift in the arc of things. 

What followed is both inexplicable to and known by all--a devastating year of disease, death, discord.

But still, this beautiful earth held to its well-worn path, spinning lopsidedly on its axis while bending its way around the sun.  

And still, the Sandhills Cranes came, alighting on the sandy fingertips of the Platte, hungry and honking.  

Still, the Honey Locust out front stretched its limbs skyward, its tiny, new leaves filling up on light-filled fuel. 

Still, the fireflies brought their magical light shows to our summer lawns.

Still, the milo fields burned orange, under the umber light of a September sunset.

Still, the quiet storm of endless snow told us it was okay to stay in and just watch.

Come March 10th, amidst the mixed microburst of crocus and vaccine, I will don a silly hat and raise a glass to this beautiful, steady earth that has held me this long year, remembering those who have gone and those who have yet to come.  

Amen and allelujah. 

Joy and Justice

"Joy, I think, is a kind of self justice."
        --J. Drew Lanham, ornithologist and poet

What could possibly top the wonderland of yesterday morning, our world transformed into an icy, walk-through Ansel Adams photo framed in iterations of grey?  By lunch yesterday, my neck was sore from looking up and my toes were frozen from walking through.  What a way to go, though!

This morning could not have been more different.  Clear and calm, almost spring-like, my walk was punctuated by long-silented birds. Cardinals had swapped their short-chirping winter soundtrack for the trilly love songs of spring, while the Blue Jays shrieked warning of the low-flying Sharp-Shinned Hawk trolling for breakfast.  Also chiming in were Black-Capped Chickadees (chick-a-dee-dee-dee!), White-Breasted Nuthatches, sparrows (who generally deserve no capitals, except for the White-Crowned, Harris and White-Throated varieties) and House Finches.  It was a choral performance for the ages.

Halfway through the walk, the low, golden arms of a February sun alit on my head, stretching my shadow across 33rd Street, until I covered both sides of it.  And, as so often happens when I walk, I felt the low, happy thrum of endorphins pulse through me.

Yes, I've seen the forecast.  I'm aware that today is as good as it gets for awhile.  Plummeting temps likely will shorten my walks for the next few weeks, but they won't stop them.  And I'll be darned if I let something that is not here yet take away the joy that this morning has already brought to me.  That would be squandering a gift and, if I've learned anything in the past year, it is to savor the good that finds me.  

Joy, for me, is the best fuel I can burn as I walk into the unknown of a thousand tomorrows.  If I were you, I'd head outdoors today and fill up on it.  Your engine will thank you.

"I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in."
    --John Muir