It’s spring. Cloud, wind, flashes of sun, the snow gone, everything looking a little scruffy. It’s very dry; there’s less than half our normal snowpack in the mountains. Without a lot of rain we’re looking at a fiery summer.
At night I sit on the back steps listening to the big creek half a mile away roaring down to the lake. It’s a wonderful sound, between a rush and a roar. The Steller’s jay whose territory is outside my bedroom window has become noisy and territorial, screeching, barking, making all kinds of odd reptilian hisses and clacks, a rusty hinge turned predator.
It all feels a bit remote to me, a bit like something seen down the wrong end of a telescope. Forest fires? Maybe. Climate change? Probably. Neighbours with motorcycles and midnight barbecues and industrial-strength speakers? No doubt. But it’s all somehow over there. Seen out of a train window as I pass by.
It’s nice enough, in its way. Things fuss me so much less than they once did. Unflappable, or just old?
My life isn’t about any of these things any more. There’s a conversation going on, and at their worst these are distractions. I am experiencing my life as being held by God, released by me. I’m sure about this; sure that it isn’t just sanctimonious chit-chat. In some way I’m kind of disappearing. The personal data, not that there are, God bless us, all that many, are of such little account. I like it when I feel well and happy, but I don’t much care when I feel sick and tired. I really like it when I sleep well, but it’s not that big a deal when I don’t.
the thing that stays real, and maybe gets more real, is love. Maybe that’s because it isn’t coming from me. As my own needs, reactions, state of mind, become less important I am more able to be a proper conduit. My good qualities, the ones that come with the gene pool, of steadiness, strength, patience, and intelligence, are so easily put to use now.
Downside? I look back with grief, horror, disbelief, at the stunning and outrageous stupidities of years gone by. “We have done those things we ought not to have done, and left undone those things we ought to have done.”
Maybe it’s winter’s end in my soul as well. Dry, dusty, scruffy, inheld breath, waiting for rain, sun, even for fire, coming out of one more winter.