My eyes have found the small, triangular buds of a bush outside my window, across the fence the past two mornings. This early morning I particularly noticed their pointing upward, although they’ve changed this evening.
What I felt when I gazed at the buds, somehow singled out from all the shrubbery and sculpture in view, was a pang. Usually buds say newness and promise of growth, and they give me an energetic, hopeful feeling. Today I felt more the sharpness of how they will race into fullness of leaf and blossom and I will simply age more.
So their pert shape and crisp color that made them stand out in the foliage, while it was lovely, did not evoke the freshness of spring. Thinking of aging is perhaps not a rational, sit down and have tea sort of exercise. It seems to arise sometimes from aches in my joints that I don’t usually experience after mild exercise, or from getting overly tired. But this approach of spring is making me look in the mirror in a different way.
While my view and mood were considerably softer in the late afternoon, after a lovely walk in breezy fresh air and after the day’s work was done, still those buds are hurrying into leaves to nourish the bush by capturing sunlight. What am I eagerly leaning in to accomplish? What can I produce, beyond keeping up with the daily expectations and business?
I credit myself that I notice what I notice. That I see and find beauty around me and that I pay attention to the sometimes less than honorable dialogue in my heart and mind that accompanies my day.
It would do no good to scream that I don’t want to spend spring aging. That I in fact would like to decompress from some of the effects of turning 70. That even if some wisdom comes with old age, and sometimes a happiness that is more carefree than I’ve felt in younger days, still it is clearly a slow demise. Not a fresh leaf and flower.