I’ve been fighting against the urge to confess. I started this week mellow, tired, content. Folks appeared out of the ether for Northern Voice, embodied and making music in our living room. Such energy and excitement to be together! It was living in community while it lasted and that is a while when friends share their experience so generously on their blogs once they’re home. I had a wrap-up post on the go too but I stalled and it’s died on the vine. It’s been curiously painful to resume my work and my life this week. I feel resistance, a discouragement deep in my bones.
Perhaps it’s the daffodils that are appearing in markets, and snowdrops in my garden. Spring is late this year, we’re often well into the blossoms by now. It’s the loveliest and longest season on the west coast of British Columbia but we had something a bit like Canadian winter this year. I’ve worn my 2nd hand Nike ski jacket (Be Subversive Buy Local Food button strategically placed over the swoosh) and my purple and black skull toque everyday since Solstice.
The joy of spring is sharp and sudden whenever it comes. Golden daffodils on the kitchen table suck the breath out of me, leave me bereft. In about six weeks they’ll claim all the garden beds at Hamilton General Hospital in Ontario, just down the highway from home.
“One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds.” Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac (via The Lost Language of Plants by Stephen Harold Buhner)
I’m going to spend my day of childcare tomorrow (9:30 until 2:30!) outside tomorrow and ask the plants for help and heart’s ease: medicine.