(Not meant to be a haibun - not edited for one, that is)
To me, winter is for simply existing. No enthusiasm, no energy, no lust for
life. I count down each day of winter, looking toward the first tweaks
of spring. It's an easy thing to long for the fragrance of lilacs, and the first appearance
of the diminutive calliope hummingbirds. I want to feel the first warm
day's sun on my face. At my age I'm beginning to hope I live to another
spring, although I have no reason to doubt I will. A feeling lingering just beyond grasp.
first warm day -
of old age
I've decided (like I do every winter) this spring I will plant all manner of vegetables and flowers. Especially tomatoes. I prefer celebrity and Roma tomatoes. And I have fencing on two sides of the backyard just begging for flowers. Colorful flowers that brighten the gloomiest of days. But . . . if I do this year as I do most years, I will plant a bare minimum. I always find something else to do with spring days. Feed the squirrels and birds - the mourning doves, juncos, sparrows, finches. And there's always a new painting to work on. I'm in a power wheelchair now so I'm limited as it is, although I can do yard work from it.
I've come to the conclusion winter is for conjuring plans and spring is for turning my back on them. Plant a few veggies and perhaps some flowers, then sit under the cherry tree and feel and smell the beauty of the cherry blossoms. The door to my studio is about 10 feet from the cherry and plum trees, so I'm either under a tree or in my studio. My studio holds such delights for me. Oils, pastels, oil pastels, acrylics, pencils, every kind of canvas, paper and substrate I will ever need. And gadgets and trinkets to boggle the mind. I love the studio.
There's always something to do besides labor - thank goodness. I can hardly wait for that first warm day of spring.
about my childhood -
pink in the sunrise