Be Still
“At some point, we realize we are standing on the other side of the fence.”
April 2nd
Today, the doldrums of rain and feeling let down by the promise of “in like a lamb,” elicited sadness, disquiet, uneasiness. The world is full of cruel comfort. I am leaden with a sense of mourning. For what? So many things, things that seem to have abandoned us when other people’s blind miscalculations of what is right began to routinely stab at all the good stuff with blunt knives. What a stultifying and brutish place of unreason we live in.
I ask my fuzzy dog to take me out for a walk. I need air.
The roses stretch their branches despite brief snow showers in the sunshine. The weather lacks certainty, but isn’t that the nature of Spring? I shiver for the roses but suspect they will be fine. Roses aren’t delicate. They have thorns.
The fuzzy guy leads me past a preschool housed in an imposing Victorian building as cold as the day. Yet choruses of gleeful and squeaking cheeky children abound. My fuzzy friend Zeus stops to watch the tiny people running about on an exercise landscape of underground tunnels and rolling hills. He wags his tail, I laugh, no, I giggle, indulging in the giddy joy of mindless fun.
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At some point, we realize we are standing on the other side of the fence. We tear ourselves away, passing a tiny Korean restaurant with phantom hours. The aroma of garlic wafts and grabs both of us. For as much as I want to crack the puzzle of its “open hours,” part of me wants to let it stay a mystery, like a pearl in the oyster, someone else’s treasure.
We turn down a corner lined in trees and Victorian flats. Everything is muddy, but the daffodils are in bloom. Even the occasional cherry tree says, “Screw it. Why not?” And why not, indeed? Pink is delicate strength. For some reason, the magpies are on the wane this year, replaced by tiny wrens and various small birds otherwise known as “tits.” They join in with the blackbird in gloriously tuneful motifs.
Meanwhile the fuzzy guy reads the scent of pee from other dogs, encoded in the trees, red postal boxes, and lampposts. He is deep in doggy research, because he’s a scholar. The trees are still bare, their bones more prominent against the cold yet sunnier backdrop. The sprouting green has begun and long days are upon us. In no time, we will be awash in bright green.
As we walk up the short ascent home, thinking of green tea and treats, I notice a glint of gold on the ground. At first, it appears to be an earring, but perhaps not, no, it’s more bronze, possibly a hose part.
Nothing of the kind.
It’s an elegant messenger, a golden encouragement — a ring inscribed with the words,
“Be Still.”
©SVlahos2024
