The Moment After Section :: Page 4
The day begins with tree shadow, with bird song, with a rectangle of grey on the slanted ceiling that slowly warms to blue. The top of a spruce floats there, and the ghost of the crabapple cut down this spring.
Sometimes when a story touches on the very spots I most wish to avoid, something else occurs. Rather than fuzzing my reception, the story’s nearness to my own experience seems to open a channel for really hearing.
It’s iris season again. Three years ago, I could have told you exactly where the village’s best and showiest blooms grew. Here, a look back at that 2013 “iris survey.”
My favorite glimpse was a blaze of forsythia growing up between two dark-clad Norway spruces. The spruces have always reminded me of a certain kind of minister or undertaker, while the yolky yellow interlude was like a kid’s laughter in a stern church.
I do know that light enters at odd times. I’ve experienced it. I do know that the eye finds light — co-creates it — and so the cosmic keyhole that separated and joined the star and my eye tonight was a necessary contrivance of both.
Somehow “it’s her birthday” will be stamped on my forehead, or written in the sky with a big sky-arrow pointing down. Does this border on a sort of pleasant paranoia, a birthday persecution complex? It might.
Astronomy is a mystery to me, but the fact that the full moon sets just behind Joe’s house — that’s easy to understand. If I were the moon, traveling alone all night, I would take my rest there, too.
It’s still February, a strange and diffident month. It’s a little scared of its own boldness, so ducks its head, like the snowdrops, and calls down the snow.
Matching my gait to my thoughts (or was it the other way around?), I realized that one part of freedom was what I was experiencing right then: the removal of arbitrary constraints.
A winter garden holds as much spring as spring itself, the way the pause before speech holds as much speech as the flow of words that follows.