Fourteen
March 21, 2016
Kansas City, Missouri
Dear Babette,
The bushes that held the red berries in January are now bursting with tiny white blossoms. In the summer and fall, they are a bit untamed and green, but now they seem exceptionally sweet. A small patch of purple flowers is growing in the yard near what once was a Koi pond. It was filled with dirt before we moved in and the wild seeds were allowed to grow to their liking. I wish I could see what the yard used to be, it's easy to see that the previous owner took great pride in small kingdom. His name was Dennis, we get a lot of mail for him. Once upon a time, Dennis had a beautiful yard, but it seems he lost it to a foreclosure. The bank fixed it up, and sold it to our landlord. The house sat empty for a while, over a year and most of his hard work is overgrown and neglected. By the time we actually stayed in the house longer than three weeks, it was winter. The wild greens had to turned to brown and all the leaves were shed.
Now the yard is green after a week of generous rain and it's all coming alive. There is a great big lilac bush, or so I'm told, pushing out fresh green leaves. Lilacs smell delicious. The rose bush, that I transplanted is growing taller by the day. I think that's a record for me, in terms of plant life.. What a victory. With such success, I'm ready to consider a small garden or maybe an indoor plant?
We had a mild winter, but emotionally it has seemed endless. Spring seems to taunt us with its slow work, doesn't it? The earth is gently bursting with new life. Green adorns the branches that withstood the bitter winds of January. The slow work of spring requires the long season of exposure and darkness. Are we too eager to wish it away? To uncomfortable to linger in the open, echoing spaces? Do we call branches that are simply not in season dead?
One our last visit to the library, I picked up a book called, Little Tree, mostly because I liked the illustrations. The story went something like this, there once was a little tree that was scared to drop its leaves, so he would not let them fall. Year after year the tree was afraid and the dead leaves clung to its branches. All the other trees around him grew and grew, each year dropping their leaves and each spring sprouting new ones. They grew taller and stronger; the squirrels and birds made homes in their branches. The little tree stayed small and frail, holding tight to its brown decaying leaves. Before long, the little tree could not feel the sun, because the other trees had grown so tall and rich with foliage. In the shadows, the little tree was still afraid, but he knew he needed to drop his leaves or else he would die. So, he did. Winter was long and cold, but the next spring, he sprouted new leaves and dropped them again that fall. Year after year, he grew and grew. The birds and squirrels nested in his branches. He felt the warmth of the sun.
Babette, of course, that stupid book made me cry and then my seven year old said, he was a brave little tree, wasn't he, mom? He was scared, but he then he was brave and he grew.
Anyways, I'm trying to be a person who doesn't wish away winter and let spring do its slow work.
On Saturday, my daughter was in the yard, collecting those purple flowers, when a cluster of renegade snowflakes began to fall in her hair. What! Snow! She was delighted and confused. These early warm days surprised us and suddenly we're pulling out wellies and bikes and fishing gear.
We woke up to winter's last kiss on the first morning of spring and then it was gone.
We had a mild winter, but emotionally it has seemed endless. Spring seems to taunt us with its slow work, doesn't it? The earth is gently bursting with new life. Green adorns the branches that withstood the bitter winds of January. The slow work of spring requires the long season of exposure and darkness. Are we too eager to wish it away? To uncomfortable to linger in the open, echoing spaces? Do we call branches that are simply not in season dead?
One our last visit to the library, I picked up a book called, Little Tree, mostly because I liked the illustrations. The story went something like this, there once was a little tree that was scared to drop its leaves, so he would not let them fall. Year after year the tree was afraid and the dead leaves clung to its branches. All the other trees around him grew and grew, each year dropping their leaves and each spring sprouting new ones. They grew taller and stronger; the squirrels and birds made homes in their branches. The little tree stayed small and frail, holding tight to its brown decaying leaves. Before long, the little tree could not feel the sun, because the other trees had grown so tall and rich with foliage. In the shadows, the little tree was still afraid, but he knew he needed to drop his leaves or else he would die. So, he did. Winter was long and cold, but the next spring, he sprouted new leaves and dropped them again that fall. Year after year, he grew and grew. The birds and squirrels nested in his branches. He felt the warmth of the sun.
Babette, of course, that stupid book made me cry and then my seven year old said, he was a brave little tree, wasn't he, mom? He was scared, but he then he was brave and he grew.
Anyways, I'm trying to be a person who doesn't wish away winter and let spring do its slow work.
On Saturday, my daughter was in the yard, collecting those purple flowers, when a cluster of renegade snowflakes began to fall in her hair. What! Snow! She was delighted and confused. These early warm days surprised us and suddenly we're pulling out wellies and bikes and fishing gear.
We woke up to winter's last kiss on the first morning of spring and then it was gone.
I look forward to seeing spring here in my backyard. It's beauty won't rival the grace of Dennis' green oasis, but it will be alive and a bit untamed, which suits me just fine.
The slow work of spring, it's happening. The robins are pecking the earth. Litte C is on the lookout for any living creature she can find, now that she is tall enough to see out the big window. How much of our lives is the slow work of spring? Probably, more than we understand.
In my next letter, I will tell you of the book I just read, not because I want to discuss in depth all of its wonderful merits, NO, but to save you from ever opening the cover.
Send Bennett our love. I've enclosed at least 10 drawings from the children. After all, they each draw like ten pictures a day. I can't keep them all.
Send Bennett our love. I've enclosed at least 10 drawings from the children. After all, they each draw like ten pictures a day. I can't keep them all.
All my love,
Olivia
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