Somewhere in my body, memory and the future meet. Especially in Spring.
An embryonic elephant’s ear, wizened and bloody green, surfaces from March soil, and I taste June’s rhubarb; smell it baking with cinnamon, nutmeg, and raisins under a dome of pastry.
I’m shoveling composted cow manure to make new veggie beds. It’s just days past the Equinox, and my sixth straight of willful labor. So when the temperature pushes 80 degrees, and I start sweating, my numbed brain worries forward. I stagger through a July heat wave; stumbling for a nap on the sofa, a cold pack over my eyes.
I notice tight fisted buds tipping the branches of Korean Spice Viburnum, and I’m ready to drift to sleep on a warm May evening, perfume ghosting through an open window.
Apricot tree blows kisses down the alley inviting an all-girl chorus to hum through its branches. Since this tree only manages to fruit about one year in seven, it’s no wonder the blossoms open a perennial angst. I feel myself turning up my collar against a driving April sleet.
Instead of our normal wrestling match between winter and summer, we seem to be having a spring. We revel in it, and no one quite trusts it. Most years, the eager question in late March is, “Do you think we’ll have an early Spring?” This year, we’re asking each other, “Do you think it will snow in April?”
It’s anyone’s guess.
What’s to be done?
We observe; look for patterns; apply our wits. We plant Chionodoxa with early Itzim narcissus, and feel delight when they bloom together, disappointment when they don’t.
This odd spring, along with all the borrowed trouble and presaged pleasures, I have a different anticipation. Somewhere in my body, a memory lifts my arms as if there were strings on my elbows. I step into weather, plants, and soil as if joining a dance partner, and allow that partner to lead.