Spring was about three days here, and then summer arrived, blazing and bursting like some royalty whose appearance was already late. It is hard to catch up; I still choose too-warm clothes for morning walking, not quite believing that the air can heat
up so quickly.
The earth is rich in color and scent; I scamble to get plants and seeds in the ground. It is a heaveny ecstasy, a Privilege to do so. When I turned 67 last week, I celebrated by hiking the Signal Hill Trail in St. John's with my niece,
not yet 40, and was elated with the day - her company, the barren hills, the fog and icebergs, the stark Signal Hill with its hundred and something steps down and up. The elation has not left me.
Gratefulness is creeping through me: a surprise. I have
lots of work to do, but the approach of a sabbatical year beginning in mid-July is beckoning with a kind of dancing joy.
I am posting a new poem tonight (see poeming 2), written about an encounter with a dragonfly, who reminded me yesterday that "there,
every one, separately feels compassion for others entangled in the flesh/and knows there is no other shore." (Czeslaw Molosz). Sabbath time will open space for such deep questions, and I will have time to dwell on them without answering or even seeking answers.
Let the answers arrive by themselves. I will wait and listen. What relief, what joy.