Spring

Proclamation at a Birth

Linda Pastan

                                 for Anna

Let every tree

burst into blossom

whatever the season.

Let the snow melt

mild as milk

and the new rain wash

the gutters clean

of last year's

prophecies.

Let the guns sweep out

their chambers

and the criminals doze

dreaming themselves

back to infancy.

Let the sailors throw

their crisp white caps

as high as they can

which like so many doves

will return to the ark

with lilacs.

Let the frogs turn

into princes,

the princes to frogs.

Let the madrigals,

let the musical croakings

begin.

Over and over again, the bumble bee keeps thudding against the glass windows in my office. I turn to see a deer leisurely crossing the lush green landscape. The sky is blue, so very blue. Take a deep breath – the air is fresh, clean. You can’t help but recognize this as nature’s adolescence, the days of the year when things grow at breakneck speed, procreate, store up reserves, revel in the simple privilege of existence in this global home.

All of us, including the dog and cat, can’t get enough of the sun. We are soaking up the goodness, quenching the thirst of our souls with its life-giving energy. Paradise found. No need to search for answers. Reasoning gives way to an unspoken understanding of life-affirming praise. I feel rooted to this place, to every cell pulsing here, to its gifts of unspoken grace so oft overlooked and acutely denied.

I have been engaged in many forms of making both inside and out – in the kitchen, at the keyboard, on my knees sunk in moist soil. These may be offerings, blessings uttered to ease the pain of a hurting world. These may be creations, small and meager in the midst of a crisis such as this, and yet gifts of my best intentions. These may be revelations to my soul, reminders to return to what it knows best – feeding, nurturing, expressing a few true words. What else can be done on a day such as this?

I desire nothing less than to offer you the alms of connection to the earth like the finest threads of the spider’s web blowing in the breeze this morning, perfectly constructed between beam and branch, splendor of note to us all. So, too, the blooming yeast, the turn of phrase both concise and clear, the sprouted seed. Let’s remember the glory of this day with humility, revel in every single minute, and know completely that goodness returns after the sacrifice, after the sleeves are rolled up and the hard work begun, after spring has sung its song deep into the night.

Messy

 A Perfect Mess

Mary Karr

For David Freedman

I read somewhere

that if pedestrians didn’t break traffic laws to cross

Times Square whenever and by whatever means possible,

      
the whole city

would stop, it would stop.

Cars would back up to Rhode Island,

an epic gridlock not even a cat

could thread through. It’s not law but the sprawl

of our separate wills that keeps us all flowing. Today I loved

the unprecedented gall

of the piano movers, shoving a roped-up baby grand

up Ninth Avenue before a thunderstorm.

They were a grim and hefty pair, cynical

as any day laborers. They knew what was coming,

the instrument white lacquered, the sky bulging black

as a bad water balloon and in one pinprick instant

it burst. A downpour like a fire hose.

For a few heartbeats, the whole city stalled,

paused, a heart thump, then it all went staccato.

And it was my pleasure to witness a not

insignificant miracle: in one instant every black

umbrella in Hell’s Kitchen opened on cue, everyone

still moving. It was a scene from an unwritten opera,

the sails of some vast armada.

And four old ladies interrupted their own slow progress

to accompany the piano movers.

each holding what might have once been

lace parasols over the grunting men. I passed next

the crowd of pastel ballerinas huddled

under the corner awning,

in line for an open call — stork-limbed, ankles

zigzagged with ribbon, a few passing a lit cigarette

around. The city feeds on beauty, starves

for it, breeds it. Coming home after midnight,

to my deserted block with its famously high

subway-rat count, I heard a tenor exhale pure

longing down the brick canyons, the steaming moon

opened its mouth to drink from on high ...

I couldn’t believe that I ran into this poem today just like the time my husband and I ran into the oldest pub in London late one damp evening last fall. We were hungry and finding few options only to happen upon this little gem with the best table in the house just welcoming us right next to a blazing fire. Serendipity in a trip full of serendipity. I have been reading Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir as well as thinking about NYC once again under siege but resilient, wondering how I will find the city changed when I next wander the streets of Manhattan. NYC is messy, always has been and always will be and Karr reminds me that there is beauty in the mess. Like all the most important things in life, I just have to pay attention to see it in the teeming tide of humanity.  

 

Life is messy perhaps never more so than right now. I only have to look within the confines of this home, more than amply spacious but being put to use in more ways than usual these days. Every table has been designated for a different station of activity. The dining room table has two puzzles underway. The living room cocktail table is set aside for games with favorites stacked high on the rug within easy reach. You will find stacks of clean, folded clothing on the den cocktail table and cushions from the deck chairs hastily thrown on the den’s side table as dark clouds forewarned of an imminent soaking. 

I try to clear the kitchen island each day to keep it open for cooking and baking as we have all found great enjoyment in the culinary arts. Still, dishes and food populate the counters, fill the sink, and eventually find their way into the dishwasher. The family wanders in and out of the kitchen all day long for coffee or snacks or lunch as we move through the day on our own schedules back and forth to the only surfaces in the house that remain uncluttered for the official work demanded by our jobs and schools – our desks. Most importantly, we rotate dinner responsibilities and then meet at the kitchen table to eat dinner as a family, sharing the events of our days just a room or floor away yet strewn with news worth discussing and oftentimes deep questions worth contemplating.

Outside, the neighbor has been cutting down trees again, an attempt to control the mess of nature and cultivate a manicured lawn. I see nature under siege and sanitized; she sees beauty and control. What folly. Nature refuses to be controlled, and our attempts usually lead to considerable damage, because we fail to understand the intricacies of the natural world from the smallest microbe to the immense oak that towers over the front lawn, endlessly dropping leaves and branches and acorns. I learned in detail from Doug Tallamy’s book Nature’s Best Hope that it is precisely this mess that connects the oak to the top and bottom of the food chain and makes it one of the most important living things east of the Mississippi. I embrace nature’s perfect mess right outside my front door. Serendipity once again.

I am happy wading into life’s messiness. Messiness keeps life interesting. It reminds us that the pursuit of perfection is folly. Yes, growth happens in the midst of the grittiness of a mess. Messes challenge us, engage us, change us. Messes may arise from brilliance or shortcomings, eliciting wonder and joy or anger and sorrow. Life would certainly be bland and boring without them. Even the mess of this pandemic is fertile soil for learning and meaning. I am reminded of the Buddhist saying that life is 10,000 joys and 10,000 sorrows – a perfect mess sprinkled with serendipity, if we are wise enough to look for it.