It is the time of year to be happy. When blossoms reveal their gorgeous hues and designs, offering their perfumes (and needed pollens if often human-irritants) to whomever passes by; when leafy trees and bushes are greenest, glowing in copious light; when the sky rids itself of the greyness of dense clouds and flaunts its blueness; when days seem longer, thus rife with possibilities. And the bird songs offered for listening ears–what pleasure lies there! All this signals potential fo extravagant ease and joy that was less available in wintered months. At least for those who enjoy warmer hikes, for one.
There is, as well, the springtime mating dance, full of theatrical displays enacted and repeated by countless creatures. The delightful new births that herald continuity and the hardiness of life. And courtships carried out by humans in various venues and ways, the glance to glance messages, an array of touches delicate and intense, and words that break barriers and open the heart’s gates, unlike other attempts made. Everyone and everything is making the most of the turn in weather, the radiance of more sunshine and scintillating skies.
In Oregon there is plenty to celebrate, not the least of which is a gradual cessation of near-constant, melodious, and sometimes onerous rains. There is the disappearance of colorless days and long shivery nights. One suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to vacate the comfort of an easy chair and seek out new (almost dry) forest trails and luxuriate on less windy ocean beaches where sunsets flash and glow, and rhythmic waves deposit new treasures. The very warming of air is a gift as one moves outdoors, hands lifted to a brilliance of sunshine (though our mole eyes squint at its strangeness). No wonder people used to consider the sun a god, that astounding powerhouse of the skies. No wonder spring brings out the glory of life and, thus, an inventive spirit, whch encourages fervor and industry that people are capable of feeling. We in the Northwest, after 5-6 months of moody rain, can again exhibit these and other spring-induced traits without restraint. (Such as overflowing all outdoor seating spaces for picnic areas at park, small cafes, fine retaurants, and communities of food trucks.)
There is good reason for more hope if the shadow of too little of it crept in during damaging ice or snow storms, making us wary of weather–even disbelieving of spring’s certifiable return.
And so, happiness, yes? It should and could be so, and usually is for most people. But for others, there lies a harder route to follow between the slowing of rainfall and sudden bloom of cherry blossoms, tulips regally dressed like princes and princesses, flocks of birds singing out and vying for attention, and the fluttering of butterflies still yet to come.
But sometimes people cannot face the beauty with open arms. Spring, I discovered as a clinician aiding those with anxiety, depression and addiction of all sorts, is often a time of turmoil and precariousness. What love? What certain hope? They came with empty hands and battered souls. Trials enervate all sorts of people, even those who may appear at ease in the world and reaping wordly success. And spring has a way of exacerbating feelings of loss, loneliness and exhaustion. Celebration is not what comes to mind to those who suffer.
Recently a friend shared that a family member is suicidal. She does all she can to help, to support. But not everyone can find the necessary will to go on, nor wants to be saved. The deepest desire is for that loved one to keep trying. To conjur enough hope amid the pull of depression. I can feel her pain, the intense fear and worry.
Death due to suicide is unimaginably sorrowful; I lost a nephew though not in spring. But I have noted before that a few family members passed away from other casues during this time of year. I acknowledge the sadness as this includes two of my siblings, both parents and a granddaughter. It’s a challenge to be thrilled to celebrate young twin granddaughters’ birthdays knowing our adult granddaughter died the same date. It still isn’t great to think of my mother being buried on Mother’s Day 23 years ago. But that I loved them–this is what sticks with me the most.
There was a period in my long ago past when spring found me on the verge of a more general unravelling. And then, too, unravelled. The robins’ relentless calls heralding end of winter in four-season-Michigan triggerd in me an anger that made me snap at the dawn. The array of gorgeous flowers made me weep. The long days seemed burdensome too often–give me the darkness in which to take refuge, to walk quiet streets alone with my thoughts, I mused.
I was during those times too tenderhearted to withstand such seasonal upheaval, so attuned was I to the erratic nature of weather. I felt swept up with it. Criss-crossed with longing and losses already, with passionate dreams and embarrassing failures, I was…so young and bewildered by life. I was seeking one fine, true love while also sure that God was the only one not to desert me.But then: just where was God when desperately needed? Gravely wounded, I was not anywhere close to being healed. When I became a bit older, I just hoped to live through another birthday. An April birthday. A birthday made of all the beauty one might one need, and yet that can feel as sharpness against a torn soul, a tired body and mind that can’t rest. There was such unpredictability in living.
Rebirth: I waited for it in my life, too. I half-reasoned that if spring is a brilliant explosion of the wonders, it can also beseige with indicators that pleasure and joy that just do not come. And they can arrive with fanfare, simply not to last. For too soon sweet blossoms will wither, grasses will grow more brittle with summer heat, and insects will flourish, crawl and fly and sting when one is not looking. While other seasons were admirable spring offered contradictions that seemed intolerable.
Of course, that was just one perspctive, but it was my own. As a teenager and a bit beyond, I felt that season overwhelmed with its promise, as well as the drama of thunderstorms, the routine horror of tornado sirens. It soon left me slogging through a hot steamy summer with more thunderous storms (yet a relief after spring’s madness). Then autumn would brighten the world and my mood only to dampen those wonders and bring somnabulance with hints of death as winter buried all again. But at least it wasn’t spring all year.
Pessimism took root. Why love something or someone if it would only disappoint or far worse? Beauty bleeds the broken heart, I wrote with an anguished flourish at sixteen. How could spring be a friend to me when all else seemed nearly lost? Everything looked amazing but life was mostly not, at its core. It was like pretending a lie was the truth–just as I was living my life externally, creating fine, successful enactment of better myself while shrivelling inside. But such lies have a way of collapsing. As it did. As I did. I spent a few springtime stints in psychiatric units while other kids were gallivating on vacations in Florida and beyond. Then, by summer, things were better in small ways despite the clinging heat and cicadas’ interminable buzzing. I could swim outdoors, laze by the shade of a tree with my book and notebook and pencil, visit the lovely lakes nearby, hang out with friends at the Circle drugstore lunch counter, line up dates for drive-in movies, travel a bit. I could breathe even as I sweated in sweltering July sunshine. I had again gotten through Spring.
I wonder how I rallied to keep moving during those nightmarish times. I am now so far from seasonal and generalized distress (and have been the bulk of a lifetime) that it is a muted memory. Now I understand that despair erupted not from seasonal change but from untreated PTSD, for in the 1960s psychologists may have accurately diagnosed soldiers, but not child sexual abuse victims and many others. There were only drugs to be given starting in my early teens, barbituates and benzodiazapines that caused tissue dependence as well as psychological dependence. I opted out of using those at the end of my teens when all substances (alcohol came much later, for a time) were found useless and dangerous. It was an-often lonely journey as I shaped a healthier life. The trauma did not end with those early days but followed me everywhere, and life visited upon me more assaults. And if one has been told all their lives that he or she doesn’t have what it takes to be well and strong, one might just believe it. I fought against that terrorizing untruth and, slowly, with help, won my right to stand tall and go forth into life with good work and greater love.
So, I had found the intensity of nature ramped up emotions and unresolved problems and spring somehow was the stage upon which I played them out. But as I recovered, ordinary life and the complex cycles of nature were again experienced as awesome design and order with far-reaching value, and a greater optimism and faith were in time restored to my thinking. It all taught me a few things about nature and emotional health.
For one, the potency of seasons provide nourishment and enliven and sustain us, or they can overwhelm and undo us if we are feelng unprotected, abandoned or grief sticken, fragile and worn out. In my opinion this is true even as climate change affects us more and more. We still witness the unfolding of miracles to instruct and nurture us, to remind us of our connectedness to earth and the universe we live within. For me, nature is a reflection and a testimony to God’s awesomeness. When we are unbalanced, we cannot recognize its saving graces without a refreshing and refocus of inner vision. Yet contradictorally, nature can be a powerful portion of a lifeline, for we are co-existent. We may need help to rediscover this incredible reality during short-sighted periods. We need to know every day nature is a healer.
Though I have control over my own emotions and thoughts, we cannot control seasonal changes. (No doubt even strictly controlled environments are affected sooner or later in various ways.) The seasons and their weather, though deeply intriguing, no longer have a much of a deleterious affect on me unless there is a dangerous event. I know, for example, we live in earthquake country; I have experienced only two small ones thus far. We live in zones where there are floods, landslides, rock slides, random ice storms and wildfires. I stayed in a hotel during ice storm weather, even then not having consistent power. I have lived in my home unable to step outdoors or open a window for two weeks when fires threatened, smoke billowed about us. But I am not looking for danger or expecting the worst. I take it as it comes, try to better prepare myself, then go on with my life. The high winds we get with tremendous pounding rains; the deep darkness of our winters; the steep temperatures of summer with no rain for months–all this. But I am not on a seesaw of emotions. Humans adapt to survive and thrive, as do other creatures. Weather is becoming a greater challenge than when I was a young woman, yes, but I remain and will live through the coming times the best I can, connected with others who learn to do the same.
Staying alive despite harsh events and celebrating the gifts in living in small, gracious ways has remained a good way to be for many decades. Life has provided me much fulfillment. I respond by giving back. Spring is such a fascinating pleasure that I anticipate it with wide-eyed glee every year.
But the next time someone says they hate spring or wish people would stop acting so happy about a season that will just end and who cares, anyway, what does any of it matter– be aware. It may well be someone who aches with emptiness, who is forsaken, who is sunk by grief and needs intervention to get off the edge where they teeter, uncertain if another day is worth staying around. Put out a kind and encouraging word, a strong hand; try to keep them a little steadier, show them better options until they can find their way to hope and courage again. You never know what others suffer until you pay attention and open yourselves to their need.
Soon I will be filling ceramic and clay pots with flowers although relentless, stealthy squirrels will keep digging up dirt in newly planted containers. I will make fresh brewed iced tea and sit under the trees and be happy as the birds speak to one another and me. May Springtime teach, invigorate and deepen your lives, as well.
If you or someone you know is feeling suicidal, call 988 in the U.S. Seek professional help and find hope.
Max ran alongside the thick hedge, a few prickly edges of leafy trimmed branches catching at his skin and clothes as he flew by, tearing a bit of his rocket T-shirt, the one his father brought from a NASA visit. The problem was, this part of the yard was too narrow to charge through. Plus, it was often where the cat nestled as she believed the shady part was her kingdom. Since their fluffy black and white Trixie didn’t welcome others there, he avoided it and saved himself from her propulsive leap and blood drawing scratch. Yet to his surprise, Trixie was apparently out and about a moment. He kept on running, sweat slicking his neck. It was a day to climb things or cruise on his skateboard or run fast, the sun blazing and a good breeze ruffling his longish auburn hair. He would worry about the tear later.
The other side of the house was “a lovely space under development”, as his mother told all who asked. It was an “old and dignified home”, he was told every time he said it was ancient. She’d had French doors put in and soon there’d be a deck off the breakfast room. His father asked why it was necessay since they already had a dining room plus breakfast room plus a back patio but she said the breakfast room was only a nook and, anyway, she wanted more attractive room outdoors.
His father said under his breath, “I think the eight year old pricey patio provides all the necessary fresh air.”
“Why on earth do you say such things?” his mother said. “You’re a scientist, aren’t you? You know we need daily and more healthy engagement with nature, right?”
Max would have found them hilarious if they didn’t argue about the development going on and other things. His father worked in a research lab related to space travel and he loved that. But he was not such a big outdoors guy like some fathers. As for his mother: for Max there was already so much room outdoors that it never ended. So far. Luckily.
As he neared the end of the boxwood hedge where the sidewwalk began, he realized his vision was more than a little off. He blinked a few times and still saw little of what came at him, only blurry shapes and faint colors. He felt about his face and came to a full stop. His glasses were gone. He stooped over and began to hunt around his feet, hands patting the grass inch by inch. Max would not ask for help if at all possible.
This was not a new problem. His parents often told him he absolutely must wear the sports eyeglasses strap daily now that he was in more sports. They meant he was running some fast races, skateboarding well, cycling for several miles and fooling around successfully with basketball. It was clear he had athletic ability even at age ten. Max was quick, strong and deft at most physical challenges, despite the inconvenience of wearing glasses. Swimming was an issue but he still enjoyed any kind of water. A goal before summer was to get them to buy him prescription goggles; they had a grabby strap but it’d be worth it. He had even saved money from chores, birthday and Christmas to help lower their costs and resistance. His mother worried he’d dive in recklessly and crack his skull.
He’d do alot more if they’d cheer him on more. But there was the problem with not seeing well. ,Myopia, he was told in second grade like it was a disease. It was true he couldn’t see the chalk board from his seat well enough to not seem brainless. Even though he was moved to front row. He hated having glasses, but after a few days was amazed to be able to see each tiny spring maple and birch leaf. He could easily tell when his jeans and shirts needed washing. He saw the whiskers on Trixie from a few feet away. He could spot his friends by facial recognition at least a half block away. He felt more safe, so began to be more active with “even a bit of a daredevil coming out” Grandpa said, slapping him on the back. They played tennis, but that could be fun in a way. As long as the ball didn’t hit his glasses or they flew off.
The world was revealed that first full-sighted spring in happy spasms of surprise. Max not only adjusted–even to teasing he got from a couple kids; “four eyes” they yelled–but he felt almost at home in them. They were his key to enjoying each day, more than he’d imagined.
But he didn’t like that strap on the back of his head. It made his scalp itchy and it always slipped about so he’d have to stop to adjust it again and again. And it squashed his hair, dented it by end of day, which lately bothered him when he checked in the mirror–he liked his thick hair. It got nicer every year and he was shooting up already; soon he’d be eleven. He would not wear the strap, at least not until he found one he liked more.
Max was down on the ground in a crawl, searching with strict attention. It was hard to find glasses when you couldn’t see farther than 6 inches in front of you on a good day with bright light. If his father came out front he’d be in for it. After all, Max simply had to use common sense–he also wore glasses and his glasses strap was never removed except to replace it.
He was halfway back down the hedge row, now closing in on Trixie who had returned to her spot, when he heard his name called. He ignored it; it was Mrs. Jamison from next door. Not that she would an issue of what happened. He liked her. But she would detain him with talk.
“What are you up to, Max? That is Max, isn’t it? Or is that Joseph? My, how tall you seem. Can I help you at all? Are you alright, son?”
He lifted a hand, gave a quick sidways wave– she’d soon be on her way. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to chat sometimes. She was just…pretty old.
“Too damned talkative!” his father had noted after a fifteen minute conversation with her as he would try to get the front lawn mowed. It was a job he didn’t like and which Max often completed. “She speaks in circles and layers and insignificant details, as if I’d asked for a book plus prologue and epilogue.” But he admitted she was a very good neighbor.
Max’s knee met something sharp. He let out a yelp and sat back. No blood oozing into his jeans. Maybe a little thorn from a dead rose bush he’d hauled away from the back garden. He was about to get back to crawling and patting the grass when two grayed-white old fashioned tennis shoes took over his view.
“It’s your glasses, ay? Fell off again? I know how that is, believe me, glasses can be a big pain to keep track of, but that’s how it goes.”
“Yeah…it does.” Max kept crawling along the hedge and grassy area, and knew she’d come along, too. He was used to her ways, having lived next door all his life.
Mrs. Jamison bent over, head moving to and fro, her reddened eyes scanning rapidly. Rather weakly, of course; her own eyesight was more limited than she admitted to anyone. But she also had a knack for searching out lost things. It was a life skill that began when she was 12, so there had been many decades of being patient as she searched, intuiting hiding spots of this and that. But so far, she wasn’t getting much of an idea where Max’s glasses had lept.
They advanced until close to Trixie who rushed to greet her, then rubbed her head against Mrs. Jamison’s shin and meowed. Max never understood what they had in common, but Trixie visited the lady often, rounding the hedge quietly and with purpose, then returning in a couple hours.
Mrs. Jamison ran her palm over Trixie’s head, back and tail, then resumed efforts alongside Max.
“I had them on as I passed Trixie,” he explained. “They have to be closer to the end of the hedge, by the sidewalk.”
“Well, let’s track them down, shall we? Though you know they may have flipped and gotten stuck in the hedge or ended up in my flowers– newly planted. There are other spots they might grab onto.”
“That occurred to me, too. How will we figure that out since neither of us have great eyes?” “To put it mildly…” Mrs. Jamison said, smoothing lines of consternation from her forehead. “You know, you might ask your mom to help. I can tell she’s in the kitchen as there is a faint scent of scorched…muffins? Cookies? She’d find them in a jiffy.”
“Walnut cranberry muffins, well done,” he smirked. “Yeah, but then I’d get a lecture again.”
“Well, she has perfect vision, poor dear. We all have deficits.”
Max looked up at her. Was she getting loony? His mother was lucky!
“I see your disagreement, Max, but the truth is there are advantages to not seeing everything easily or perfectly–in not having vision like just anyone.”
She did have her way with words but he ignored that and kept on feeling around for the black plastic frames of glasses, his magic connection to the kingdom of everyday life. It made him nervous when he lost them. It made him feel weak when he couldn’t see. It sometimes scared him when he got up in deepest night and saw nothing but nothingness, not one sure edge of anything unless the moor was full. But he was not about to admit that to anyone, not even Grant, his best friend.
His hands prickled, his eyes itched, nose was a bit fussy. He’d long had an allergy to grasses until he got allergy shots. He was not about to lose more opportunities to live outside as much as he could. But allergies still could interfere, like losing glasses. There was nothing to be found, it seemed, of his artificial eyes. He sighed and stood up straight, stretching hugely. He required a good stretch many times a day.
“You keep growing so fast, you’ll one day fall right over from the sheer height of you!’ Max chortled. “Mrs. J, you’re funny sometimes. But yeah, I feel kind of tall. Better to shoot hoops!”
“Right!” she beamed. “Now let’s take a break. You come sit on my porch with Trixie and me a bit and we’ll strategize.”
Max saw Trixie padding in the direction of her house. Mrs. Jamison followed.
“Okay. My eyes hurt from squinting and itch from being on the grass. I’m thirsty, too.” He walked gingerly, each step like a step into nowhere-land.
“Iced tea with lemonade coming up,” she said as they moved up her sidewalk. She disappeared indoors as he sank into a chair on her porch.
Max tried to survey the hazy, undescribable street, then closed his eyes. It was enough to make him long for bed and sleep when he couldn’t see much. It was disorienting despite having lived on the same street for 10 years. How could he continue to put off using the stupid strap that lay in his bottom desk drawer?
“Here you go.” She handed him a beaded glass of sweet and tart liquid, then put on the floor a little dish of milk for Trixie. Then she sat in her rocker and rocked slightly, her peaceful face upturned to the warmth. “What happened today?”
Max looked her way and saw her eyes were closed–he thought. “Same old thing. I got going and they slipped off. I was running from the patio to the front and realized in a few steps they were gone.” He slurped a long draught of the tart drink.”Sometimes it seems they don’t want to be on my face.” He gave a little laugh. “It’s not like I can help it, though.”
“How many pair of glasses have you had the last few years?”
He thought that over. “Maybe three? Four?”
“So, perhaps one pair a year.” She looked over at him but he was looking at his hands, Or nothing. “Kind of pricey, right?”
He’d heard that before, too often. “Yeah. I tried the straps–tried lots–but can’t seem to find the right one.”
“It just takes getting used to. A small thing when you think it over.”
“Well, you can say that but you’re…” his voice faded away. He felt embrarrassed that he was rude. Well, she was pretty old, no getting around it.
“I’m not ten. But at your age I could still see. It was only after an accident at 12 that I couldn’t see right.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“Of course not, that’s ancient history. And I don’t go telling just anybody. Right now I feel like telling you. I grew up in Minnesota. Winters were snowy and icy. It got treacherous outside. A bad thing happened one night. My optical nerves were damaged when my face and head got hit hard in a car accident. What a mess! One eye lost vision entirely awhile but I got treatments galore. Years of those. I won’t bore you with the misery of it. My left eye was spared most horrors and it sees pretty well with glasses, but my right one is still not the best after all the doctors. And money spent. Anyway, if I do lose my glasses, I’m in a sad fix. I always wear a pretty chain attached to hang onto them in case they fall off. And if they are taken off, I forget where I put them sometimes.” She shrugged.
“Guess I never noticed–the glasses thingie. It’s just what you wear.” Max sipped his drink and stole a glance at the pretty chain. He could barely make out what it was, maybe pearls looking like dangly earrings as they hung from the bows. And her face–it seemed okay to him. “So…I guess it was hard when you were a kid. I mean, more than hard, right?”
“I was almost a teenager. Those years were lost to medical issues. I needed cosmetic surgeries, too–fixed my nose, a cheekbone, forehead scarring. How could it be any worse, I thought. But I got on with it as best I could. I’m not a quitter.” She looked at him. “You aren’t either.”
Max’s body shimmered with the shock of her story. When she was just a little older than he was! He shifted and turned to face her. “That sounds awful! I’ve never had any real bad times. I mean, glasses can get in the way of sports and I want to be a really good athlete but people go for it, anyway. But I just have to use the strap, I suppose.”
“You don’t like how it looks and feels, ay? Makes you feel a bit more conspicuous? Even famous athletes wear glasses and use them, right? So you surely can. Believe me, there will be worse things.”
“And who cares, I guess. I’d rather not go through this every time they fall off and maybe break. Mrs. J., I can’t even tell what house that is across from us and I do know it, I just can’t remember the colors, can’t see its shape. It feels pretty strange.” He rubbed his eyes. “Terrible not seeing stuff.”
Mrs. Jamison rocked a few minutes, silent.
Max cleared his throat. “So, that must be what it was like, only alot worse after your accident.”
“Something like that. Lots of darkness, all kinds of darkness, Max.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “The thing is, you can get used to anything. I felt scared at times, sure, but then I realized I had other senses and if I never saw well again I’d figure things out. By sensing things- hearing, smelling and tasting, touching. Paying attention. I got good at it. Figuring things out by being super aware. I called it using my naked eye, a way of seeing that came out of need. I had real eyes, but this other help that gave more information.” She laughed. “My friends used to call me Batty–like a bat– because I was fast on my feet, smart and had a kind of radar about things. People, places.”
She paused to squint at him–he was hanging onto her words–and continued. “Well, maybe ‘batty’ meant I was a bit nutty, too. But I had to learn to live all over again in many ways. I was thankful to make it through. Here I am, still, ay?”
“Huh, it’s weird but kinda cool. I guess I’m lucky to just have near sightedeness.”
“Perhaps. Have you tried to do things without your glasses? You might be surprised what you learn by having to use other senses more to find your way around. The thing is, uncluttered vision can make you smarter about what you see. It’s like this: when we see super well, we see so much, and extra things that aren’t necessary at the moment. Sometimes we miss what we need to see most. The naked eye can also be simply our unrepaired eye–the one or ones that are unchnaged and so are not distracted. We see our own special view of things. We see more honestly.”
She stopped rocking and talking as if she knew she had gone on too long. Trixie had made herself at home on her lap, her bright eyes firmly shut.
Max heard her words and he thought he got it but she had gone pretty deep. It was a lot to take in, as his mother said after talking with her awhile. But Mrs. J. was different than most grown ups; she thought he’d understand more ideas and experiences; his thoughts mattered, too. He didn’t always get her meaning, but he tried more than he did with other adults.
He stood, stretched and listed to one side. “Not really. You can see that I don’t feel great without seeing great. I feel off balance, too.”
“Yes, but that improves with practice with use of that naked eye and your burred vision. The inner ear adjusts. Your body wants to be whole, well and balanced.”
He felt a little awkward thinking so much about his body and thinking about it with her nearby. A bit lost in her words. In her story. And yet he got what mattered to him and he even believed her. He perched on a foot stool and watched Trixie clean her paws thoroughly.
The two of them, Trixie and Max, had been neighbors of Mrs. Betty Jamison all their lives. She’d watch him an hour after school off and on when his mother couldn’t get home on time from her job or his parents went out. They chatted on the street if they saw each other. They’d shared good BBQs in both back yards. He’d always liked being at her house; he was a kid then, never thought one way or another about her. Her husband had died a couple of years back; he was a heavy man who spoke with a pipe stuck in the side of his mouth and had a big laugh. Max missed his good natured manner. The Jamisons seemed good together and Max found their house peaceful. Unlike his, sometimes.
“Can you see okay these days?” Max asked her suddenly. Maybe she was going blind. She had talked so much about her poor sight and she was getting older every year. It suddenly worried him. And maybe she was warning him to take care of his eyes.
She smiled. Sure, well enough.” She tapped his arm with knobby fingers to emphasize. “Time starts to impair sight, as we know. But I manage fine. I keep practicing with–“
“-your weird naked eye plus two decent real eyes, right?” He wanted to move past the idea of her not seeing life go on as usual. Did it come to that and worse?
Laughing softly, she shook her head but of course she agreed. “It’s more like…without the advantage of glasses you can manage to find your way fine, usually. Without ordinary sight you have new experiences in the world, Max. Different ways of being.” She looked right at him though she wasn’t clear what he saw in return. “Okay, enough of that!” She scooped up Trixie, snuggled her, set her free. “Let’s get your glasses.”
He made his way down the steps more slowly than she did, and was surprised when she made a quick turn in her own yard.
“I have a feeling…” she said, then walked over to her side of the hedge. She exmained large areas with him following and feeling lame. She stopped. “Come closer.”
Max peered with nose almost touching the dense boxwood hedge.
“Too close, stand back where I am.”
His eyes roamed, narrowing to better focus on the mass of dark greenery. Nothing. He scanned the top of the hedge; it was five feet high. A cloud scudded by and the light changed and there was a sudden bright spot on the greenery. Light bouncing off something shiny–his lenses. He reached up to tug the bows, releasing them from the hedge’s hold.
“Eureka!” Mrs. Jamison said.
The relief he felt was so strong he about wilted as he checked them out with with careful fingers, holding them very close. They looked fine so he put them on, settled them at each ear. Instantly everything took on identifiable, reasurring form. There appeared a little scratch and smudge on one lens and he saw they needed fixing but oh, how glad he was to have his “eyes” back. They again allowed him greater purchase on earth’s surface, a steadier hold on his mind. He took a deep breath, let out a downward cascade of whistling.
Mrs. Jamison patted him on the back with a light touch and went to her porch.
“Wait, he said. “Mrs. J., thanks alot for helping me! You figured it out. I didn’t expect them on more on this side, on top.” He removed them, cleaned the lenses with the tail of his T-shirt and them put them back on. They’d be fine.
“You get those cleaned up better– and wear the strap every day,” she advised sternly. “The last thing you need is to have them fly off when you’re in a basketball tournament or out skateboarding like a wild man. Not a good look, you fumbling about or smashed on the concrete.”
He laughed and waved to her. He resumed his run again. Then he abruptly stopped, walked back to stand at the end of her walkway.
“Any chance we can keep this to oursleves? Mom and Dad…”
“Count on me, Max.” She made a motion of locking pressed lips and tossing the key.
Max picked up speed again. What a nice lady she was to help him out. All those years she was a good caretaker of others. And that naked eye idea of finding your way even when nothing was easy to find–he might just try it. See what happened, get back to her, just hang out a few with her on her porch sometimes.
There are times I become nostalgiac about our old neighborhood; we lived there for 27 years. It is a lushly flowered place as spring arrives with meticulous yards that overflow with small and big greenery and blooms, and houses proud with fine porches for sitting about in interesting chairs. One can feel time melt away in those lovely spots. Irvington is on the National Historic Register, and a place where one is loathe to leave, which is why we stayed so long (then found a couple reasons to move to our current home.)
My walks were zigzagging and circuitous, crisscrossing streets, pausing often to photograph like mad. I admired grand old homes and accompanying maples, oaks, and the apple and cherry blossoms–all arched overhead. I mused over varieties of flowers, the care with which they were planted. Poems came easily as I meandered–I recorded them as I went to put on paper or computer later. My mind was stilled by a fine clarity, heart lightened with elation. The very air was redolent of nature and life deeply rooted, generous of fragrance and design, a touch of wildness amid the finery. The air was so sweet in spring that it clung to me a bit when I left outdoors; I threw open windows and doors so it would wend its way in day and night.
I became accustomed to the presence of those places, thosew streets– the gravity yet lightness of them. Some houses fancy, others more modest–all lovely. They were a comfort with the serene proportions, friendly verandas and gardens a-shimmer with color and humming with bees. As winter failed to lash its way through unfurling leaves, sunshine became a bolder presence. I revelled in another unfolding of the seasons.
I suppose when I visit there what rises within me is a sense of sweeter, kinder times, when the world seemed to turn a little more slowly. Even all the way back when, as a child, I could safely roam the streets on bicycle or on foot, wandering several blocks to visit friends or to while away the days. I’d stop in my tracks to marvel over bird songs or a neighbor’s garden abundance, to observe ants at work or butterflies fluttering beyond my reach. The natural world was luminous to me as it is to a child–vivid and unfettered by more serious climate matters. Electric and perfect. It spoke to me. It brought me right to God.
It still often feels like this. So one way I try to hold it closer is to photograph. I have taken hundreds of pictures of Irvington neighborhood delights, and offer only a few today.
I am juggling many feelings as I search archives. I am entering a period of anniversaries of loss. I don’t grieve day to day, anymore, but those worn, softened places where tears have run like rivers linger in my being. I turn to what I want most to see, experience, revisit during the next month or two. I seek and create greater cheer. It may be the memories I need to evoke, as well. Despite vowing to return to that area in the peak of spring, summer or fall, I only infrequently have made good on it the last five years. And none of the recent photographs taken have matched the beauty of older ones. Perhaps it was the regularity of walks that distilled my fervent attention. There is an intimacy that such familiarity brings. And so when I look back over reams of pictures, I am lit with happiness. Still, I will go again. Soon, camera in hand.
The last two pictures–tulips which signal to me another birthday is soon coming, and one of myself from 2016 that was in an Irvington grouping: how the decades come and go! How fortunate to look back and find the good and true in all the ups and downs, before and since. I found joy then and I find it now, for what benefit are melcancholy reminders of losses if we cannot discover rejuvenation and go on? As a Christian, I know the cross will become empty soon with the promise of greater life beyond. As an ordinary woman, I know that what is lost can be honored while creating and loving anew.
So, Happy Easter, Happy Spring! Happy flower findings, all.
An imperturbable demeanor comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune and misfortune at their own private pace like a clock during a thunderstorm.—Robert Louis Stevenson
Tales for Life 
You must be logged in to post a comment.