May I do the Mother’s Day blog instead? I am pulling literary teeth here. Can I write anything that will compare to the suffering of the blue hydrangeas languishing in plastic pots on my patio? Their heavy heads loll. Their roots scrabble about the drain holes searching for a nest of moist soil. What lyric would best describe the song of new lettuce ready to be picked?
I am itching to paint the twin rockers whose peeling arms grab my attention each time I pass, watering can in hand, headed for the basil and mint. I’ve a table full of treasures all sorted and ready to display on the tiny gilded shelves unearthed from the detritus of my storage shed.
I have missives to pen, new peas to snap, and pictures to un-frame. My linens have exploded from their shelves and wait in bleached and anxious stacks. These projects and more seethe in the spaces where winter’s dust once slumbered.
Why would I write in spring? The world awaits me.
I must live a little now to write again when the leaves have fallen and the pool has donned its winter cover. Now, the leaves are bright and flipping their smiles at me. The cerulean water sparkles and giggles at my angst.
That’s it. I’m going outside to wipe down my harvest table after last night’s rain. I am seasoning its texture for family dinners in the lingering twilight of summer. I have my cardinal to check up on. He has not left my Garden of Eden and, I suspect, will not go for any reason. I’ve put a copper roofed house for the bluebirds just inside of the forest and it must be nailed up as well.
The hammock rocks as if crooking its finger at me. It’s covered with a pristine quilt and pillow and ready for a nap in the breezy dappled afternoon tree light.
There are lemon cookies cooling on a rack and a pitcher of iced tea sweating on the counter. This day has seduced me with the aromas, colors, whispers and rustlings of creation and dreams. I am lost.
I will get back to you a little later about writing, its obligations and constraints. Today I belong only to myself, my garden, and May. -Teresa Burgher