This was the 33rd time I’ve wintered, and first season of hibernation with full permission. Full permission to sleep in, to take warm bath after warm bath, to press my palms into my soft skin with oil, to stay in, to listen to music without words, to go days saying nothing, to take long walks alone in the bitter air, to turn entirely inward without the sadness or embarrassment I may have felt before. To be for no witness, to resist the impulse to be seen.
In spite of the permission, there was longing. Longing for sunshine, bare feet and chests, river banks, the smell of sunscreen, the sound of iced tea mixing, the porch swing.
In spite of the longing, there was joy. Joyous gatherings, candles in the dark, warm hugs, cozy booths packed deep with laughter.
In spite of the joy, I held close to me, all winter long- my love of summer. Practicing memory as faith.
There is nothing like the earliest spring blossoms- the bravest among us. The ones who run towards summer before they can speak.
It seems like every spring I revisit an old poem called “First Blossom” and it rewrites itself as I shift again into new life. Regenerated. Of a new form. Who are we now?
a poem
-
First Blossom
Juicy one, spilling out
of herself as the lapis
flies gossip.
Dear one, with eyes open for
the changing.
Free one, who wilts wildly, audacious
while the others sleep. The others
who will never see winter. Others
who will only know how the first blossom,
the holy martyr, spoke of its
vital churning.