Plodding, clod hoppering winter had me down. I was on the heating pad warming my butt with the computer warming my lap and making feeble unsubstantial lists of what I could do perhaps when I am more something I don’t know yet.
One day the sun pulled up the snow’s skirt covering the lawn and showed the green muddied flesh below. The next few days all of the crystallized coating of the back deck has dissolved leaving only the winter dirt spray surfacing the boards.
I grew large and passive as the dark months passed. I would take an hour break from nothing really to work out with weights or walk until I hit ten thousand steps but there was no conviction in it. I was serving my time, the time, the winter curled inward time. I told myself I was resting. And maybe I was. I wrote blogs, read books, had dreams that faded in the slight light of morning.
It is hard to know what is happening because I have eyes at the front of my head. I only have eyes looking out of my upstairs window. What happens to others is their materiality not mine. Their vision does not align with mine. To be human is to have a limited understanding of what it is I think I see.
And then the pileated wood pecker hammered me alert. It began to peck on the outside of the air conditioner. A bug landed on my computer screen. The neighbour’s giant black cat came in closer to my house as he was hunting something. Everything changed.
I had a roommate in college who was a Christian from Wenatchee and she taped onto my bedroom door:
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
And I hated her for doing that. At 19 I knew what I was doing. I worked. I worked hard and stayed focus. In four years I earned three degrees. I was in control.
But now as I approach 75 I react to the times of turning inward, the times of reflection, the times of waiting “IT” out differently. It is a season.
And now nature is stretching out its green pointed fingers through the soil and the tree is setting tiny promises of leaves. I go out the door and I begin again. The garden calls me. My expanse of territorial concerns grows beyond my bedroom, my house as I look outward. It is a time to build up, to dance, to gather stones, to embrace, to speak and a time to love.
For everything, there is a season. Thank you for trying to teach me, Kay. I get it now.