The hard shell of winter is cracking and the luscious gooey center called Spring is oozing out. My nighttime noggin is doing the same with dreams so rich, colorful and vivid that I feel like I've entered a children's book where all the characters are past acquaintances, human and critter, who have come to tell me a story full of metaphors only I can interpret and appreciate.
This happens to me every Spring. It's crazy. My dreams become so wild that anyone reviewing them would insist these events just don't happen in the day-to-day world. And yet, the vividness, the colors and the intricacy of every moment of the dream only serves to prove the dream must be every bit as real as the world I walk in wakefulness.
I wonder how Spring brings this on. I suppose it has something to do with the beginning of new life. Perhaps it's the slow tilt of the Earth's axis back to the Southern Hemisphere and a more luxurious weather pattern that allows for free time and play and less emphasis on survival.
Maybe vivid and extravagant dreaming requires a sense of the stirring of life, seen and unseen, that is all around me.
Perhaps dreams as extravagant as my Spring dreams are prompted by the constant flow of the season.
Whatever the source, I love my Springtime dreams. As bizarre and outrageous as they are, there's a sense of being more connected with everything, including you.
"I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can play together all night." ~Bill Watterson
It's April. Spring is on the rise, literally, from the ground up. Early morning on the porch with coffee; peepers, pussy willows, phoebes, crocus, sand hill cranes, ... ahhhhh.
Good thing I made a whole pot!
My Jersey celebrated her 15th birthday on April 1. A Noble Dog.
http://www.squidoo.com/WalkingTheDog
As usual, along about the end of February, I find myself musing about things to come. I become a little less present as I plunge my thoughts and emotions into the upcoming fishing season. As the snow begins to melt and trickle from seemingly flat surfaces towards the lowlands of increasingly bulging creeks and rivers, I notice the new swiftness and I can't help but feel the urge to do a little river running.
It's the nature of rivers to drop in elevation over distance. That is, of course, how they flow. Some relaxing and beautifully meditative rivers drop consistently with few or no surprises. I love to travel these wonderful rivers because they give me the opportunity to play with friends or trail a fishing line or lean back in my canoe and contemplate something important or nothing at all. This is the nature of most of the rivers I travel in Michigan.
Many of the rivers I travel further north, into the Canadian Shield, are not gradual. These rivers pool and drop and pool and drop, keeping me ever alert. The deep pools of swirling water are where I often find the fish. I love these rivers for their energy. They lift me up and move me forward at sometimes breakneck speeds. The canoe goes forward, up and down, right and left and side to side all at the same time. My paddle becomes a rudder and a brace, slowing and turning me as the conditions demand. My arms hurt. My back is rigid and my butt and legs are an extension of my craft, using body language to direct me. And then it's over too quickly and I'm bobbing on riffles, heading towards calm water where I once again must use my paddle to move forward. Sometimes these rivers even force me to stop and get out of my canoe, wary about a drop I might not be able to navigate.
I don't prefer one type of river over the other. They are both special. It's the variety that is important to me. Moving forward at a steady pace, as in the case of my Michigan rivers, is delightfully energizing in the way a nap rejuvenates me. Moving forward in a chaotic way, shaking things up and amplifying the adrenaline, as in the case of my Canadian rivers, energizes me in the same way a good brawl gets the juices flowing.
It's March and it's time to rumble! See you on the river or on the bank. Your choice. But I'm not waiting.
"All rivers, even the most dazzling, those that catch the sun in their course, all rivers go down to the ocean and drown. And life awaits man as the sea awaits the river." ~Simone Schwarz-Bart
"Eventually, all things merge into one, and the river runs through it." ~Norman Maclean
It's cold, very cold, bone chilling cold.
Early this morning, the light from my porch light rose straight up on the ice crystals in the air.
Last night's almost full moon created brilliant moon shadows on the pristine snow. The two dogs and I fell into step and there were 6 of us whenever we were not in the shadow of a tree or bush.
Tonight's full moon is the Wolf Moon. Named for clarity of the wolf howl on a cold night, traveling on the brittle air much like the light from my porch.
I'm torn between immersing myself in the bright silence and the temptation to let out my own howl.
This month we had our annual January thaw, so common in the North that it does not need to be explained to anyone who has lived here for at least a year or two. During the thaw, our temperatures, while not exactly fall-like, are much more temperate. Sometimes even, the snow and ice, as the words "January thaw" imply, melt for an hour or so during midday. Even a string of two or more days, with temperatures only 5 or 10 degrees higher than our usual January fare, is significant cause for celebration. Add some sun, and those of us in the North Country are literally jolly, buoyed by the freedoms that come with the thaw; walking upright instead of bent over in order to watch where we place our feet and protect our face from the blowing snow, driving at the speed limit without worry about an upcoming patch of ice, and moving around the house into areas too cold to visit for more than a minute or two during most of the winter months.
I took a little survey while running errands during this month's thaw. I found no one who could explain to me why the thaw happens, even though we are enveloped in it every January like clockwork. And, there seems to be no guidelines as to how high the temperatures must rise and how long for the January thaw to be official. But frankly, when you're finally walking upright at more than a snail's pace, who cares?
Generally, I learned from those surveyed that a January thaw means temperatures are high enough to create dripping off the roof for at least an hour each day. That the phenomenon lasts at least 3 days but longer is better. And it's a grand year when the thaw is accompanied by the sun. And if we really dare to dream big, the thaw and the sun are best if arrival coordinates with at least one weekend. It does in no way mean we lose all our snow. Some years even, it's agreed, the January thaw is not technically a "thaw" but nearer to high freezing temps.
As I write today, the snow is becoming heavy with moisture, falling off the trees and the banks of the creek, creating new noises for my big black lab to bark and growl at as it splashes into the creek. Lake ice is melting to an inch or two of water on the surface of 12 or more inches of ice. That water will immediately freeze tonight into fine skating-rink quality ice. There's a racket in the woods around my home as those who semi-hibernate come out of holes and burrows and dens and piles of snow to see what's up. I welcome the touch of the thaw for the subtle change in my sights, sounds and smells, for the sun on my face, for one less layer of clothing on our walks, and for the smiles and the change of conversation I get during my travels. I welcome it for the breather it gives me before we enter February and very cold temperatures. And I welcome the thaw for its prediction of the certainty of March. I welcome it for its spirit.
My friend David tells me the English word for spirit comes from the Latin spiritus, meaning "breath." He suggest that during this January thaw, the earth around me is engaging in a spiritual pursuit, breathing in and breathing out, expanding and contracting. And that's the gift, isn't it; to pay attention to just the simple things like the planet breathing.
"Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each." ~Henry David Thoreau.
