Morning light drips off everything. Lucid. Without the winter screen and the cracked window pane my little desk space shines.
What a joy to take my tea out back and water the fledgling strawberries and see what is up and about to bloom. The return of daylight is a boost for my soul. I felt the tedium of winter, even if an unseasonably warm one.
The rose tree is sending up suckers trying to become a bush. Clumps of daffodils never separated are going to make mini blooms anyway. I filled two old yarn buckets for the birds and other urban wildlife who need a drink.
Looking through old cracked glass and a ripped screen. That is like carrying a story stretched over what is really going on, and the narrative changes what I see.
In clarity, the kind that comes from a quiet looking without a flood of words, the focus is on the Japanese Lantern that hangs bell like reflecting and capturing light. It feels like promise. It says new things. Something will arise out of the old work.
But of course flowers, even lovely ones hanging in sunlight outside one’s window, don’t talk. There’s that voice over. And the counter argument.
My view has changed. Perhaps a birthday milestone shift. Perhaps spring is pushing up through my consciousness. Health returns after a prolonged siege with influenza viruses.
Morning tea. Tending plants. Drinking in the visual glory of sunlight splashing on my windowsill. Framing everything in that after the storm is over then the glory of peace kind of way.
Yes, there’s the return of my hopeless optimism.