It appears to me a colourless sort of day
a day of dreary wintry sort of thawing
and rain
it is the time of year when we are in want of
colour, something new, fresh and
vibrant
the remains of the snow are not fluffy and white
but sad and dull
in a last ditch clinging to life
decaying bodies of leaves long abandoned
lay limp and soggy
not yet returned to earth
yet still I look out the window, in search of beauty
and think to myself
if I knew anything about photography, I would love just to capture
the glistening drips
hanging like diamonds from branches
I make a futile attempt, frustrated that my camera won’t hold its focus
on the small,
and instead snaps a larger picture of just branches beyond,
then I get one, slightly smudgy shot that doesn’t quite do them justice
resignedly I abandon my pursuit, content instead to just watch
the gathering of
diamonds
it is I suppose, that sort of day
I am not very good at remembering dates on a calendar
I cannot tell you most times off the top of my head,
how old my kids are, or for that matter, even my own age
I don’t know how many years it’s been, or in lineage when something exactly happened
I suppose I just don’t focus that much
on time
this morning as I read this book, about birds, about life
the author is watching and learning about birds, while also taking her ailing father to hospital appointments
and dealing with
reality, and sadness
and
the inevitability of life’s decline
as raindrops begin pelting the window, I pause in this to realize it is February 23rd
I think of my own Dad
and yes, hospital appointments
reality, bone crushing sadness
and indeed the inevitability
of decline
he died … on February 24th , the sudden and complete devastation of this
and how, as I stop to calculate – it has now been 11 years
wow
as I have said, I am not very good with dates on a calendar
I very rarely ‘mark the day’, although I have written of it before – Here’s what I remember
I can tell you quite honestly I have never – “wished for just one more day”
or tried to pull him back
I am not overly maudlin, or regretful
perhaps it is this
I fear, you see, that if I were to attach these weights to myself
to my wings
I would most assuredly
go under
I am just not that kind of swimmer
also, I am not naive enough to think that I could somehow have
controlled time or even
stopped
it
I rarely lament its passing
it just
is
as it is
this is not to say, I don’t miss him
often, in some ways
but, if I wish to talk to my Dad, I just do
if I wish to hear his wisdom, or his laugh
or even see
his smile
I still can
life and love are complicated things
and we really are just not equipped to have all the answers
we are blessed when we are able to give and receive Love
but we cannot control its coming and its going
by holding on
too tightly
or
by never,
letting go…
the cat climbs on my lap, obscuring my book
then stretches his neck to look out at the feeder
and a rustle of birds
I wipe away the few tears that have fallen
and again, I pause
to notice
the elegant gathering and silent motion
of drips
from a branch
then,
I take myself out for a breath
of fresh air
to a wander with fresh
eyes
I fill the feeders with seed
and my spirit
with the miracles of
nature
and I offer my gratitude
for
little green
sprouts ♥