Lots of blue wool slipping through my fingers these days; occasional blue thoughts drifting through my mind…
I just finished reading Susan Hand Shetterly’s “Settled in the Wild; Notes from the Edge of Town“. It was painfully beautiful to me in this moment and place in time. In reading it, that ache that settled in my breast, as the weather started to warm, throbbed itself into clarity. I miss home. I miss living on land that I have intimate knowledge of…earth that I’ve tilled, year in and year out…soil that’s been squished between my bare toes in countless garden crossings. The gurgle of water over, under and around the mossy rocks that I’ve stood on in days gone by, eyes closed, arms out stretched, heart open wide.
I wonder if I’ve yet missed the very first evening that the wood thrush can be heard singing it’s haunting twilight melody. Is the night air yet filled with the frog’s mating song so startling that when I first heard it, all those many moons ago, I thought it sounded as though someone had set up an orchestra of fax machines in the woods? Is the great blue heron yet crossing the sky in the noon time hour, bringing back food to his mate?
I resent the flock of robins in the open field here for not being our own little robin-in-the-thorn-bush, strong and stout, who’s appearance amid the dried red berries and snow heralded the coming of spring. I wonder if my mourning doves with their iridescent breasts and plaintive cries, still gather in pairs all around, now that there is no one there to fill the home-made wooden feeders balanced on stumps. Are the buds on the lilacs swelling, in three different shades, with no one there to see them? Are there new babies in the cat bird nest, calling for food with their incessant, raucous cries? Have any of their brilliant turquoise shells drifted down to earth, with no one to claim and cherish them?
Are the phoebes wondering why there have been no tea parties beneath their nest this year? No recorder song? No child’s laughter? Is the heart shaped stone that I balanced against a tree, four years ago now, still standing? Have the tulips that I planted in peaches and creams, started to open their pastel chalices to the sun? Will there be anyone to admire them when they do?
Did anyone come this year to nest in the birdhouse that Iain built when he was but six years old? Are the trees, under which my children’s placentas lie covered in buds? Ready to burst into a profusion of blossoms? With petals that will shower down as fairy snow, all pink and white, some golden afternoon? Some golden afternoon, with no one to dance underneath them.
I’m the kind of person that was meant to live in the same house all my life. There is no gypsy blood in my soul, no matter how I once might have thought it so. I’ve been missing my home keenly in the beauty of this springtime.