I love the rain. This story begins with spring rain. Sweet spring, flowers are blooming all over the place and people are generally full of hope and joy and the rain washes away the stagnancy winter has become by its end. The butterflies flit about from flower to flower promising life and I’m out in my garden, always out in my garden. I feel the tiny rocks pressing into my knees, maybe some kind of mulch would help. When I stand again there are little impressions from the rocks in my knees, each rock leaving its tiny mark, they look weird. I’ll come back tonight to check my night bloomers. Sweet spring, I was born in spring and for years I couldn’t figure out why, why was I born at all? Then my daughter was born, also in spring, and I knew. You’d think spring would be my favorite time of year, but it isn’t.
I have heard that spring is a time of new beginnings, birth. Not just the birth of creatures and plants but also ideas and creativity, all these things in their infancy, such great opportunity for hopeful thoughts. What experience has proven to me is that letting go of hope is as liberating as letting go of faith. I try to stay neutral, even indifferent, if something wonderful is birthed I’ll be pleasantly surprised, if not, I won’t be too disappointed. The beauty of spring is so fleeting, almost as if it’s just too beautiful, we aren’t grateful enough. Global warming will show us, I mean, how long do cherry blossoms stay in bloom anymore? Realistically, spring is the beginning all right, the beginning of death and decay. Whatever is born begins to die from the moment of its birth.
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Highway Hanna
“I travel in gardens and bedrooms, basements and attics, around corners, through doorways and windows, along sidewalks, over carpets, down drainpipes, in the sky, with friends, lovers, children and heros; perceived, remembered, imagined, distorted and clarified.” Archives
July 2021
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