Spring Secrets

It’s spring in Tennessee, and it’s supposed to be hot this week. Really hot. Warm winds bringing in the kind of weather mixing with sun causing everyone to wear the big, stupid grins of youth. The emboldened smiles that kids have after sucking down mints and spraying perfume to hide the mix of stale cigarettes and beer. This season puts on most faces the grins of the young and foolish who believe no one can smell their secret as they become caricatures of abandoned innocence.

My dirty secret is that I don’t like spring. For a nature girl, I should be into budding leaves and flowering plants. I should be eager to walk in the woods, through creeks and see life ablaze in rainbows after spring storms. I am. However, spring is also awash with past failures and a list of projects.

No matter what clothes I try on from the previous year, I still weigh the same. I thought I would have lost at least a few pounds by now. And it’s time for spring cleaning. What’s that all about? Some idiot told a tale and said it’s supposed to be cleansing and invigorating. Your spirit is refreshed as you stare down spiders and organize drawers. Like a colon detox perhaps. What’s invigorating about dust and mold and mildew? Do I really need a closet filled with perfect wicker baskets lined with matching floral prints to feel better about myself? And I don’t recall anyone I know actually beating rugs outside. That doesn’t seem too helpful for those with allergies or without arm strength.

Of course, it is time for the spring marathon. A friend, whose house is on the route, offered her place on race day so we could sit outside and watch the runners. Oh yes. Sign me up. I’ll bring my chair and a bucket of fried chicken to watch all the fit people, the ones who actually worked out over the winter, run by.

Perhaps it’s just me. I like winter’s hibernation. Call me in another month when full size leaves form a canopy overhead and the hummingbirds return to their favorite bright red feeders. Call me when I can jump in the pool at the bottom of the waterfall without getting frostbite. Or just tell me that after all, the rest of my life is supposed to start today. Remind me that hope is eternal and love comes when you least expect it. Fill my mind with age old clichés and touch my heart with the softness of butterfly wings and purple pansies. Whisper in my ear the dreams kept alive by the light of fireflies. Help me remember the smell of newly cut grass and the feel of clean, white sheets on a warm night. Let me recall the sound of the owl in the middle of the woods and the noise of a flock of geese rising above a still pond at dawn.

Hmmmm…..it’s working. I just remembered another pair of jeans I haven’t tried on. Surely they’ll fit and be great to wear on marathon day. You’ll know me by my big, stupid grin - even though it will still be spring and I’ll be eating fruit.

Litter

This weekend, I traveled with a friend to celebrate spring in the country. Bright yellow daffodils nestled in newly minted grass and waved their welcome in the warm air. Wild violets peaked out with soft heads and faced a brilliant blue sky. Low grasses in the fields made our hike and conversation easy as we trekked to the river. With eyes glued on the protective bluff and budding leaves, I might have missed the trash, but my feet found their way onto beer cans, glass bottles and a discarded tin sardine lid. A faded red plow sat abandoned in the distance.

Not caring about their lives and strewing torn wreckage on the landscape of my life, they littered. Litter left for others to pick up, fix and relocate. The garbage of their fractured lives interfering with mine. We stooped down and met their presence in the dirt and picked up these traces of their carelessness. We touched their thoughtlessness. We cleaned up their mess.

Still others leave behind that which cannot be seen and it remains as ugly. Handprints frozen on the heart long after an angry slap on the face. Souls permanently bruised by harsh words. Memories imprinted as brain trauma from brutal attacks. There is little escape for that which is trapped within for human fragilities are not easily handled.

As the sun sets and we look back across the fields of our lives, what will be left behind?

Hockey Therapy

I don’t know exactly when I became a hockey fan, but I did. Over the course of winter’s solstice, while others cocooned in the warmth of their homes feeling love’s embrace, I gorged on nachos and beer. I watched grown men pummel each other to the ice. As the crowd roared in approval, I rose with them and felt a primitive rush of adrenalin. I like the sound of clashing long sticks and secretly yearn for the satisfying smack of players when they hit the boards.

No, I’m not having anger issues. I’m a seeker of harmony and peace. I believe in hopes and dreams and leaving legacies. I want to touch the lives of others and in turn touch their hearts. I am certain that life has purpose and we find each other on the same path because of destiny. I believe in pure love and soul mates. That the touch of the wind on a fall day brings grace falling like leaves in shattered lives. I believe the warmth of the sun on iced snow thaws hearts. That the real beauty of the seasons is embodied in those who plunge from black sand foundations into aquamarine waters without checking depth.

And yet, I still want to smash the faces of those who hurt others. I want to kick the butts of those who take away smiles and leave bruised hearts. I want to be on the ice and get in fist fights and defend the honor of those whose lives have been derailed by the soulless. I want to crack ribs over injustices and split lips over malicious gossip. I want to throw water on cruel power hoarders and watch them sizzle to the ground like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz.

I’m a southern girl. Born and bred to smile sweetly and keep rage in the kitchen while crushing pecans for a pie. Staring into my iron skillet watching the hot grease splatter while cooking fried chicken, I ponder life and the people in it. Don’t mess with southern girls. We may snap and get in your face and tell you to go find a puck.

But until then, I go to hockey games, secretly putting new names on the jerseys of the fighters, and recite the Serenity Prayer.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

The Good Fight

Like ocean tides, Evil relentlessly surges into my life. Pushing. Pulling. Burying me under waves of roaring pressure until I can’t breathe. Filling my lungs with bitter salt until I suffocate.

I walk along the shore and waves crash into me. I swim against the currents and tire. I swim with the currents, lulled by gentle breezes, and almost pay the ultimate price when venturing too far.

So I stop. I quit fighting and simply watch the clams burrow into the sand leaving tiny air bubbles. I imagine these small sea creatures drawing their soft bodies inside hard shells protecting themselves against predators. I feel warm breezes caress my face lifting tendrils of hair into rain soaked air. I watch the sun dip into the water kissing the sky with glorious colors of ripe mangos and warm corrals. It is then I realize how to fight and not become prey to the ocean.

I stand strong in the sand until gravity sucks my feet under. I am rooted in the grains that have been transported from times and places unseen. I stand in the particles that flow together forming beaches and dunes. I am planted firmly in the earth amidst the presence of those who have gone before and shared their wisdom. I gain strength by looking into my heart and feeling their love. I find solace by searching comforting memories until I see their faces and feel their hands holding mine.

I am anchored. I will not fall when evil washes ashore.