Spring, stay awhile.

The other day my son Jacob was carrying in grocery bags with me. With two foot of snow still on the ground, we juggled the bags and skated on the pact down paths. “Smell that Mom?” He questioned. “What?” I said. “Fishing!” He smiled at me. “Yes Jacob I do. Though to me it smells more like gardening.” Knocking on the sliding glass door with the tip of my boot, I could feel the bags slipping from my grip. “Hurry!” I belted out loud enough for one of the other two kids to come to our rescue. Jeffrey my oldest slid the glass open and unloaded my hands that were now beautiful shades of purple and red. I always attempted to bring in an incredible amount of bags at a time limiting the amount of trips I had to take. Though it was literally insane to do.

As the 45 degree air smacked Jeffrey in the face he grinned. “Mom did you get my baseball pants yet?” “Not yet Jeff, I haven't even thought about it. When does it start?” I tried not to sound as frustrated as I was for forgetting them. “Soon, can’t you smell it?” “What?! Jake just said it smelt like fishing! That's too funny.” I Squeeze through the door and slid off my boots. “What's funny mom?” My daughter came dancing over grabbing up the bags of food and sorting them through. “Your boys just said spring smells like fishing and baseball. I think it smells like gardening. What does it smell like to you?” I asked her. “Easter!” She blurted out without a second thought. “I don't know how we are going to have an Easter egg hunt though, if some of the snow doesn't melt.” She added with a concerned look appearing on her face. “Good question! I wouldn't worry, we'll figure it out.” We finished the rest of the trips to the truck and the children ran off to do what they do.

Later that evening my husband came home. Wet, muddy and cold. Putting on some hot tea for him, I flooded him with my usual commentary as he peeled off his Lacrosse boots and Carhartts. “It was beautiful today! I went shopping and oh yeah, don't let me forget to get Jeff’s baseball pants. Can you believe it's almost time for baseball? Kayla reminded me, we have to call my mom and finalize our plans for Easter. Jake –“ He suddenly cut me off. “Babe! Stop, you gotta wait. I'm cold, wet and muddy. The days are getting longer and everything is mud. Everywhere I went today was a trial not to get stuck. Even with the track machine. I'm going to take a hot shower.” He turned and headed towards the bathroom. “I really can't wait for this time of year to pass. It smells terrible. The only thing good about spring is turkey season.” He mumbled to himself as he made his way down the hall.

As miserable as he was I couldn't help but grin. The many smells of change. I’d never really thought about it like that. Each of us relate to the melting snow so differently. I buy seeds and soil to start my plants for the garden, so that we have a bountiful year. Jacob can't wait to toss a ball into the crisp pond and study his bobber. Jeffrey has the excitement of grand slams and competition coursing through his veins. My daughter anticipates family and eggs colored all different colors of the rainbow, littered across the yard. With all this happiness, my hard working husband can't wait for lightning bugs and summer heat, and I don't blame him, after all he works outside.  

I know that it seems like it’s been one of the longest, harshest winters, but as far as I am concerned, it can take its time. It comes and goes so fast sometimes I swear that I’m beginning to loose time. It’s like, one day I hear the peepers chirping hello to spring and the next day the locusts are screaming their summer goodbyes. “So welcome back Spring, plant your flowers, get some hot tea, sit with me, lets watch your colors bloom, and please, stay a while.”

Dance in the rain.

The snow has been pounding down all day and it looks like a calendar shot. The wind creates little tornadoes of glitter across my yard. Silence blankets nature's beautiful noises, until a plow eventually scrapes through the quiet, a path, to ensure that life can go on. White deserts and mirages of summer fill my thoughts, creatively this is perfect.

Writing has kept me busy for most of the chill. When writers block rears its ugly head I fill my inspiration with good books of varying genres. Once inspired I pour words out of my pen onto paper releasing mosaics of alphabetical master pieces. The long nights spent in front of the fireplace with tea and my laptop encourages me to continue writing until my novel is finally finished. Sometimes I get so involved with the climaxes as each plots thickens, that I forget the stresses of the real world. There is no such thing as bored when you are playing in your mind.

Writing down a beautiful experience is a way to not only relive it, but to embalm it onto paper and keep it forever. If you miss the beach and its salty breeze, or the way the Sun ripples across the top of the warm water write about it. If you miss your childhood memories of playing sneaks, a first kiss or sports in the summer heat, write about it. I have so many short stories that I’ve written for my children when they were small. I have some that they helped to me write, even though they more than likely don’t remember. These are gifts I can give them when they're older. Memories that you can't watch, but you can only feel as you read along with a voice from long ago. I can't encourage people enough to find local writing groups. Imagination is a beautiful thing. I feel as though you can never be truly lonely if you can figure out how to tell yourself stories. Or maybe that's just the way I’ve convinced myself that, I'm not crazy, after being an at-home-mom for all these years.

Writing, music, and art, they're all ways to create. To create a feeling, or a thought. Have you ever been driving down the road and had a song come on and it takes you back to high school? Suddenly you find yourself laughing, or crying, that's what it feels like to write about something that you're truly passionate about. Criticism can be hard however. Someone telling you that you're not descriptive enough, or that they can't “see” what they’re being shown in your carefully selected words. Just like with anything though, society creates its own boundaries and wants you to color inside of the lines. Personally, I think the most incredible works of art are the ones scribbled by a small child, or nature’s tiny little bird prints in the newly fallen snow. I like to think of myself as rebellious when I write. All rules go out the window and heart takes over. To me spontaneous episodes of happiness or spare of the moment fun are the times we should cherish the most. I see memes on social media all the time like “live, love, laugh” or “It’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” I think they’re precious, but how often do we really do this?

The world is an amazing place if we can learn to let it live through us. If we can learn to relax and absorb what gifts it can give to our senses. I am a writer. This is how I express myself. However you express yourself, do it. Whether you crank up the radio at a red light and sing loud enough to stop traffic, or whether you sleep under the stars breathing in the earthy air. Just remember to feel. It’s easy enough to find yourself building up that wall, and shutting out the chaos of the mainstream, especially in the winter months, just remember to live. Life is too short too not try to feel everything.

Barefoot...

Take me to a place where needs are melon void. Where trees swallow my attention and dirt cuddles with my toes. I want to run threw a meadow to find a creek, and splash like a child, searching for treasure. I want to chase a dragonfly that danced by my shoulder, down into a valley blessed with black eyed suzie’s. Though we spook grazing deer, they do not run, just watch. As I would breath deep and smile, lying on my back, allowing the sun to cradle me in its arms. I wish this moment could take my hand and guide me to this peace every time I close my eyes.

Judgement

The hopelessness in my heart draws a vivid picture.

Souls of the wicked grow more commonly then the tears they create.

To obsess about the virtues of the unforgivable,

Is to become as they will you to be, as if a contracted illness.

To do as you will, to except the failures of others,

Is to free yourself of the pain they have laid before you.

You are of your own creed.