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March 5, 2009

This Wonderful Life

This week, for the first time in months, my driveway was somewhat free of snow. I spotted patches of grass that have been lying, frozen, under many layers of ice and snow and ice and snow. The pumpkin that had been sitting at the end of my walkway when the first snow of the season buried it, made its reappearance, much worse for wear.

People in Upstate New York have a complex relationship with Mother Nature and her seasons. Summer is like a juicy tomato for the soul - full and sweet and far too rare. We love it, but we resent it a little, too for being so beautiful, yet so brief.

Autumn is similarly brilliant and short. Before the leaves have fully turned, they’re already giving up the ghost and lining the streets. Just look at that pumpkin of mine.

We are especially conflicted about Mother Nature’s longest season, Old Man Winter.

He’s fun at first. He’s the spry old elf, inviting you go sledding the very minute that enough clean, white snow covers the hillsides.

He’s all jingle bells and hot cocoa and peppermint candy. He makes you want to start a fire and sing ``Let It Snow,’’ and mean it. But by March, it’s a totally different story.

He’s no longer the jovial, grandfatherly figure. He’s bony and haggard. His beard is streaked with mud and his fingernails are dirty. He needs to brush his teeth. Most of all, he needs to crawl back to when he came so we can forget about him, at least for a few months.

It’s been great, Old Man Winter, but we’re ready for Sister Spring to make her appearance. We’re ready for her to coax the electric spires of forsythia, the tender fingers of crocus sprouts and the sunny-side-up faces of daffodils.

And we’re ready for it now.

I am a big believer in the power of words to not only define your wishes, but to conjure them. When I am longing for spring, I think of William Blake’s words from

``To Spring’’:

Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.’’

Read that last line again, and tell me it wasn’t written for Otsego County.

I also think of the poem by Emily Dickenson that reads, in part:

A Light exists in Spring Not present in the Year At any other period — When March is scarcely here A Color stands abroad On Solitary Fields That Science cannot overtake But Human Nature feels.

I know that light. It shines on these hills today just as surely as it shone on Amherst in Emily’s day. It is impossible for me to choose my favorite words written about spring. I know for certain that they are not my own though. It’s possible that Ranier Maria Rilke summed up springtime in all is glory best, when he wrote:

``Spring has returned.á The Earth is like a child that knows poems.’’

Because I believe in the tremendous power of words, as well as the necessity for people to gather in warm, happy places when winter is dragging on into what should rightfully belong to spring, I’m inviting you to help celebrate Mother Earth and usher in Sister Spring.

Join us at 7 p.m., April 22 (that’s Earth Day) at the Hoffman Lane Bistro for readings to and about the earth and springtime.

If you would like to read, e-mail me at VillageWordsmith@gmail. com. You can read original work or read your favorite poetry or prose. Or you can just come out to listen and lend your voice to a chorus beckoning the fairest (albiet muddiest) season of them all.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger uses her words. You can connect with her at www.mormindfulfamily. wordpress.com, or e-mail her at VillageWordsmith@gmail. com.

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