“What a glorious time to walk the woods, when only a few things have ventured forth yet, green. This is the time of confusion, where false hellebore looks like skunk cabbage, and only two or so flowering trees are vying for attention, in the highest terrain. I feel like a mole emerging from darkness, with eyes barely able to accept the brilliance of spring. In fact, I roll my eyes to their farthest extremities, making sure what I’m seeing is real, as if only this kind of vibrancy can wipe away the blurry veil of a long winter. My soul creaks, encrusted with the habit of fear, stuttering to take mere baby steps towards renewal. The seasons of the north are no laughing matter. A metaphor of devastation, casting forth its shadow of hope, unconvincingly at first, then with all the cavalier nonchalance one would associate with narcissism. How could it possibly be this easy, to regrow? Being of a suspicious nature, I bow low to my poignant anger, residual after months of grief. But what fool would not eventually come around. There is nothing better we should be doing, than this: pivoting. I find myself slowing to a near stop, as I gaze thru my truck’s dirty windshield, to count streams, newly revealed, tumbling off the mountain. Nearly causing a head on collision, and yet, my curiosity can’t be nullified. I want to know where it all comes from, and where it goes. We’re not meant to stay in the cave. Yesterday’s work of capturing a cascading flute is akin to the wild sound harvested outdoors today, where the cliffs are notched, and burbling with life. I’ve pruned a juniper for hire, investigated a recent road reopening, planned for a barn deconstruction, cleaned my truck, sharpened my tools, and received a firewood delivery of green wood, for the next heating season. My text messages are filled with instructions regarding fiddle parts, septic plans, diseased lilacs, and yoga mats. It already seems to be a race against time, but the grass is still not long enough to mow. Would I do it any differently? How could I? This is the spring I remember, and will always, look forward to. Sitting in the woodshed, on a wooden trunk, looking at the last bastion of my dry wood, tucked away tightly where I stacked it last year, I try to get organized in my thinking. Who am I now? My dreams last night were a chaotic revelation of trauma, and desperation. Which is good, because I want to remember what has happened to me. I have nothing to look forward to, if not flowers, and that is a gift that I know will keep on giving. Being in the business of flowers, and music, and making the world a more beautiful place, what more could I long for? Perhaps a loving partner, on a scale that outstrips anything I’ve been able to experience, this life. But, regardless, the signs are pointing accurately towards the next amazing thing. I don’t give a whit about what is supposedly happening. I have my sources, my earth signs, my intuitions, and my decades of dedicated, academic research. If I don’t have a clue by now, its only because I’m still refusing to claim what I know. I’ve had a lot of push back, and I know what denial feels like, and being passed by. Most people aren’t in an open attitude for learning. Maybe I missed the memo, its possible. But in any case, its old news, so I don’t dwell on it. I have too many things to do. I have grass to pull, roses to shape, raspberries to tend to, and hit records to release. Give me a few weeks, and much of this will rightfully, belong to the public sphere. I do miss my dog, however, taken in a divorce. If you see her, give a hug, for me.”
