A Writing Detour
budding awake
I was working on a piece for this week about introversion and extroversion. However I have found myself at a park currently. While sitting on a makeshift blanket, aka several old towels, the sun is washing over my skin. My phone tells me the temperature is 64. Not a cloud can be found in the sky. I’m wearing my favorite shorts and favorite t-shirt. My shoes are off. My magnificent dog, who is herself a sun baby, is prodding around the grass looking for no thing in particular. She inhales the whole world. Through her nose, through her eyes. The gentlest breeze licks my ears and makes the desiccated leaves still holding onto their trees sing a percussive orchestration. Light birdsong, a remnant of warmer days, can be distantly heard. I want for nothing. This is my definition of bliss.
I can’t write to you about introversion and extroversion because at this very moment I don’t care. Nothing is more disagreeable to my spirit than the notion of sitting indoors hammering out words to articulate ideas yet unformed. I can’t imagine trying to give birth to something right now. The rage, sweat, and splitting open are far too violent a proposition.
Instead I want to walk side by side with words and gently lay them here to rest. Let this warm February breeze carry them to me. Let the bulbs, the jonquils and daffodils and tulips, some of whom have nerve-rackingly begun their upward assent already, whisper tender words to my fingertips while I sit idly by.
My word for this year is bountiful. And this moment feels like the platonic ideal of bountiful. A rich tapestry of sensations, the birdsong and sun rays and dry crunchy grass, read like a grand harvest for my body. Maybe I’m just low on Vitamin D.
None of this was bestowed on me and yet it is all mine. That feels like one of earth’s great magic tricks. We don’t own it and yet it’s ours. No matter how much we dig and build and industrialize against it, we must share it with the birds and the hills. Maybe it’s more accurate to say the earth, in her infinite love, owns us. Perhaps we are her sun baby dogs rolling around the grass in spite of ourselves.
You will not get words about introversion and extroversion. At least not today. Because today will be reserved for splendor. Splendor of tiny moments, which are really the only type of moments we get. Splendor of this magical space between winter and spring. As icy dormancy gives way to life abundant. Today is for sitting in parks and fantasizing about spring afternoons, whose greenery and growth are right around the corner. Today is for relishing in the bounty provided by this unspeakably beautiful floating rock we’ve found ourselves on.
And if you find yourself somewhere still in the throws of winter, I hope you don’t feel jealous. Instead I hope you can sit in the chilly present and soak up the last bits of cozy sweaters and hot drinks. I hope you love the earth around you, however cold she may still be. May the gray sky above you be just another stunning hue on the canvas of your present existence. Your day of spring and warmth and picnics and green and budding awake is on the way.
If you want to improve my park and springtime experience, consider contributing an item from my wishlist.