Welcome, fair spring, wherever you find her. It is early, just a tad, but she is here, warm and gentle. We wouldn’t dream of asking her to go and come back later. Always a welcome guest, we go out to meet her at the gate, welcome her into the yard, throw open our windows, and call her into the house. Graciously, she glides in, train of green flowing behind her, golden sunlight for hair streaming all around her, cheeks that are the blush of fresh blooms.

​Time has transformed me into one who understands that toil precedes pleasure. There is always digging, hauling, pulling, washing, and pruning before seeds can be planted. Only after that can we begin the gentler work of watering and watching. Much later, we will do whatever harvesting there may be. Deciding what must be removed and clearing it away is a prerequisite to selecting and cultivating what one desires to grow.

​Gardens are filled with such universally applicable wisdom. If you long for a teacher, find a garden to work in. Then you will have four mentors: fair spring, wild summer, prudent autumn, and solemn winter. In truth, there are myriad instructors nested in each of these. We are all composite beings, not least of all these mighty seasons, the personified ebb and flow of life. Their character changes, adjusts, and evolves with every iteration, and so must we if we are alive and wise and part of the great composition.

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Golden sunrise. Brilliant half moon dawdles in the morning sky. Luxurious scent of pink jasmine blooming over the fence. Nervous spring energy. Birds singing. Bumble bees visit during the heat of the day. Hummingbirds chat with us through the open window at bedtime. A first poppy bud, yet to unfurl, waits for the perfect moment.

​Weeding makes a green imprint on my mind. When I tuck in for sleep, memories of root, stem, leaves, and flower flash over my fingertips, flicker in my mind’s eye in hues of emerald, ochre, white, pink, and black. The plants I lovingly touched are all imprinted there too, along with their pungent, fresh, herbaceous aromas. The sleep is heavy and deep. It comes quickly, early. Morning finds me bewildered.

​It’s darker than I’m accustomed to until it is suddenly luminous and filled with sun and moon and birds all at once. Morning doves coo. The scrub jay complains of the calico cat in the yard. A crow laughs at everything. I recall discovering an owl pellet on the garden wall while weeding. The limbs of all the trees framing the moon are green again.

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Once upon a time, we threw birdseed into flower beds, lined the beams of wooden fences with it, poured it over stepping stones, or heaped it on the cinderblocks of a retaining wall. The birds so favored also carried alien seeds into the garden upon their feathers or in their droppings. It was a collaborative chaos. Many strange and wonderful things grew around these impromptu bird cafes. Wild grasses, tall sunflowers, mysterious shoots. All burst unabashedly from the soil.

Our promiscuous behavior with birdseed had come to Wonka-esque fruition. Giant sunflowers grew to towering heights before turning to seed again. I removed most of our strange harvest before the entire neighborhood succumbed. One renegade seedling whispered to me as I approached with my deadly trowel in hand. It was no more than four inches high, sporting substantial, lovely, dark green leaves on its woody stem.

“I’m really something quite beautiful,” it whispered.

I hesitated. Part of me thought that real gardeners show no mercy, but I said, “Excuse me? Did you say something?”

“Yes,” it replied softly but assuredly, “I’m really something quite beautiful. Please let me live.”

I was skeptical, but readily acquiesced, granting sanctuary. I didn’t need to be a real gardener. Years have passed. The stranger has grown in that spot at the edge of the garden, near the wrought-iron fence, nodding to me whenever I pass. She now stands at an elegant five feet tall. Today, for the first time, she bore clusters of white blossoms among those lovely green leaves of hers.

“You’re really something quite beautiful,” I whispered as I snapped a photo for a Google image search.

“I know,” the mock orange tree replied softly, “thank you.”

“Pittosporum.” I replied in awe.

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Before sunrise, the full moon hangs pendulously among the branches of the great old oak. I dreamed of oak branches while I slumbered, and oak branches are among the first things I behold upon waking. I gape at the cool, bright moon, so visible in the clear dark morning sky.

​I want to talk to my husband about this moon. I mumble incoherently to the cats about it as I walk around opening blinds to prepare for sunrise and the day to come. Brewing coffee, I wonder if this moon had so spellbound my husband while he was out on his run. Would he tell me about owls and coyotes and mice traveling along the path with him under its silver illumination?

​As the sun begins its ascent, a Gaussian blur of mist pours into the neighborhood, filtering out trees and rooftops. Gone is the moon. I can’t help associating this vaporous veil with the lunar visitation. Surely this is moon mist. I catch sight of a golden disc reflected perfectly in the bedroom window of the house behind mine. Momentary brilliance before the sun becomes a diffused light somewhere beyond the mysterious fog.

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After the rain, little fat birds sit on the fence and hunt in the mulch below for worms. They find seed, too, broadcast upon the earth when an anxious squirrel toppled the small table that serves as a bird feeder. This destruction of the tower transpired before the storm. The following morning, the lightning flashed. Thunder shook the house. Kittens took refuge under beds.

​The cat did not hide during the thunderstorm. She has always been bold. That boldness has served her well for nine years, compounding with every event survived. She remained alert, eyes wide, ears attuned, body seated, composed like a perfect statue of a cat. Not unaware, no, but not about to flinch over a little weather. After the exciting bit passed, it rained hard all day. In the morning, there was snow on the mountain.

​Today, little fat birds climb on the limbs of the rose bush, flit excitedly from branch to soil, fence to limb. Kittens watch from the desk at the second-story window. Sunlight peeps brightly over the rims of some particularly voluminous clouds migrating eastward. We hear the geese, but they pass unseen over the roof. The cat sleeps peacefully, unfazed by shocking patches of blue sky and rowdy birds.

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We sat in the sun, cold wind cutting through our sweaters like knives, whipping our hair around our faces. Eating hot clam chowder with plastic spoons from paper cups, we imagined it was all balancing out, that somehow, cold wind versus hot soup equals a comfortable neutral state. We split a mini baguette with our hands and drank cold bottled drinks. Surely that was the unbalancing element that left my chest cold. I felt as though I was topless.

​Sometimes the wind stopped, and I thought I would be warm, and maybe it would not return, but then it did. I thought of my jacket left in the car, but felt that going to get it would only make me colder. The soup would get cold too if I backtracked to recover what I should have brought in the first place.

​Ah, but the sun. It made me optimistic. I believed a sweater would be enough. It was beautiful and bright, and I imagined we could eat outside, bathed in its radiance. Huddled on the bench, I focused on eating my soup. It was gritty, as if sand was a crucial ingredient. I ate faster to stay warmer, clinging to every morsel of heat.

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Roses. In time for Valentine’s Day, they start blooming. It’s such grace to a parched soul recently returned from the desert. Peach. Red. White. Neon pink. Couched in green of every hue. Among the baroque emerald foliage, the crimson leaves of the berry bramble encircle precocious white blossoms.

The sun gives warmth, touching my cheek and temples through the window. Cats recline behind me in the rectangular patch of light cast upon the floor and foot of the bed. Bird song mingles with the distant growl of a leaf blower, drifting in with the fresh air through the cracked window. Just a small opening. The air is still cold.

​I watch birds chase each other across the blue sky. A breeze pushes a wind chime to sway and call softly. The leaf blower nearly drowns it out completely. It’s the toll one must pay to live in the beauty and peace of the suburbs. There is almost always a leaf blower, a lawn mower, or a chainsaw at work somewhere. I endeavour to regard their drone as an essential element of the sweetest music.

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A series of cups of hot tea. An ever-flowing river of feline friendship purring softly at the banks of awareness. Wildbirds feasting beyond the window in the cool morning light, framed by red geraniums with velvety green leaves. A squirrel dangles from the fence to add a little rodent drama to the scene outside. Like a street magician, he mesmerizes an audience of birds.

​Warm scarf around the throat. Soft and patterned with blue florals. The most recent cup of tea tastes of quince and Darjeeling. It cools too quickly. All tea cools too quickly in January, necessitating a series of cups.

​The cup itself is a thing of beauty. Byzantine pattern of gold, black, and white. It bears the first letter of your name, a personalizing touch. Doesn’t it feel so good to be recognized by your own cup? Little things can add an almost imperceptible dash of comfort. A cup, a kitten, a scarf, a window.

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If I were a star, I’d shine on you. I’d come down to your window while you slept and sing myself into your dreams. Wherever you walked in the land of dreaming, I would hold your hand and walk with you. If it were a dark dream, I would light our way. If it were a bright dream, you would be drunk on my glimmering.

​While I am a mortal, lying frail in my sick bed, I can’t hug you or hold your hand. All that I have at my disposal are words. I’ll shower you with linguistic sparks of affection. I’ll speak to you of starlight, of that which burns brightest and hottest. If I were to use those three little words, they would be far too small.

​If I were a star, I’d light the waking world for you. I’d warm the earth so that flowers would bloom bright and delicate at your feet and trees would grow tall, making sweet the air you breathe. In this way, I would be transmuted into air, into spirit, into a life-giving breath. Still, I would remain a star. You inspire such vitality, luminosity, and generosity that I long to radiate it back to you.

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The world came alive with sunshine and bird song. Warmth emanated from the windows, slight but perceptible. Yesterday, there was frost. Today, I could be tricked into thinking that it is spring. Tricked by the light and avian music. Deceived by the blueness of the sky. Bamboozeled by the green clovers.

As long as I keep my sweater on, it is a harmless con. A little midwinter fantasy of the season to come, a charming mirage that can surprise and delight. As long as I keep my hat and slippers on. Ensure that the heater continues to run. Have another cup of hot tea. Remain reasonable, rooted in reality.

The sun could beckon to my shoulders so that I throw on a sundress. Jubilant piping from these sirenbirds could lure me outside. Verdant weeds could disarm me, luring me to linger despite the chill. Shivering, I might drown in blue sky. Resolve is called for, a reckoning with the facts over flights of fancy, a hard look at a thermometer.

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A picture of two apples on a limb taken on a mountain top in Virginia. It is blush red, verdant green, and bright blue. A shock. A startling reminder that it was not always cold gray mist pouring through the trees and over the rooftops. It was not always cold marble floors and dark days indoors. It was not always California.

​

There was a morning in Virginia not long ago that I wandered along a row of apple trees, away from the ruin of an abandoned house, towards a steep ridge. The crowd was in the opposite direction. I walked towards vining flowers, butterflies, and a line of tall trees ascending the ridge. As I strolled, I discovered a treasure, a gift from the orchard. An apple had fallen from one branch only to be caught, impaled upon the bony finger of a lower limb. It was held aloft to me by a hospitable tree.

​

Carefully, I removed it and took one juicy bite. It was sweeter than any apple I have ever tasted, on the verge of fermentation, and wildly delicious. After savoring the bite, I gingerly, gratefully, replaced the apple upon the bony finger that had offered it. Then I walked far and away up the steep ridge to see everything grow small, distant, and bluish green below me. Around me, a skirt of mountains and trees that rolled forever on.

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It is a beautiful morning of white sunshine, bird song, and sky washed white, gray, and palest blue. I consider it a nondescript sky until I try, and then I see that it is a study in these faded colors, smeared seamlessly together, gently illuminated. Crows are clicking and cawing. Little songbirds whistle sweetly. The oak is naked, but beside her, another tree sports golden leaves layered over drab green. They fairly glow against the sky.

​The concrete is still wet, saturated by last night’s rain, yesterday’s rain, all of the rain that has ever fallen forever, but is now gone. The berry bramble has put on some white blossoms. A rose is sporting a few tiny hot pink blooms. Woodchips swollen with moisture contribute to a delicious “garden after the rain” aroma. Green, woody, wet, these words come close but misdirect. The actual vigor and purity of the scent is inimitable. No art can approach it.

A Japanese black pine captivates my attention. I never noticed this tree before. Now it is the one I adore, peeking over the fence at me, and now, I at it. My neighbor grows bonsai. This one must have been set free long ago. Now it is great, though still petite, studded with juicy green needles that make me wish that I were a bird gripping one of its elegant limbs.

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Lost in winter, I behold the white sky. An alabaster sun shines through a thick blanket of chalky clouds. Partial silhouettes of trees jut out of mist; a top here, one half of a redwood there, limb of an oak. A diminutive Japanese maple leaf hangs suspended in a spiderweb, nestled in a corner of fencing. Tiny arachnid Christmas star.

​Later, the clouds disperse, revealing the blue sky. Bright sun pours in through the windows. I turn off the heater, open the sliding glass door, and let in the fresh air. Splashes of crimson around dusk, then, after nightfall, rain falls hard. I can’t believe my ears. A roar of rain.

​After dinner, phone calls, and gifts exchanged, we assemble a paper garland of stars. The backs of the stars are painted gold. The fronts are multicolored, and we string them on purple ribbon, staying up too late, eating too many crackers and chocolates. At bedtime, I am clear on the month and day, but the year is slippery. It’s alright. I’m lost in winter.

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It’s pitch black outside. I sit at the counter with my coffee, listening to the dishwasher run. It feels as though I am inside a spaceship or getting an MRI. The spaceship idea is certainly more romantic. I stare silently at my Calico, who is seated in the center of the kitchen floor. Our ancient ritual. In different spaces, in different seasons, we sit across from each other and gaze into each other’s eyes.

​Along the periphery, kittens play and explore. They are distant planets in chaotic orbits. It’s cold. Whenever I think this, I remind myself that it isn’t snowing, that this is California, that the cold doesn’t come close to threatening one’s existence the way it does in other environments. Nevertheless, I’m wearing a hat, scarf, and jacket as I sit at the counter drinking my coffee, staring at the cat, drifting through the deep darkness of space in our whirring, humming spaceship…

​Silence has been the thing. This morning. This month. I’d rather not articulate, or think in streams of dialogue, or even coo niceties to feline friends. My thoughts are in pictures instead of words. I envision color combinations, recall images I’ve seen lately, usually photos of creative projects. This morning, I’m picturing a garland of paper stars on a thick ribbon. I’d like to make one.

​In this way, I am retreating from modern civilization and society. I’m hibernating in pre-linguistic beingness, in a cave of quiet filled with flickering light and mesmerizing pigmented images. I am either from the future or from the past. I am either in the abyss of space or in the womb of the earth. Without words, there’s no difference.

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Golden sunlight on the oak. A blue jay hides a peanut in the flower bed. Cat purring in my lap, one finger pecks out each word. We begin again. Everything is cyclical, even this. Who wants to spiral with me through nature, through life, through work, one word at a time? Who knows?

This time, though, let it be unrestrained. Let the strange lights shine. It is true and that is all that matters. If one hides her strange lights, how will the others find her? How will she do her work if she refuses herself?

The only actual movement is a step towards unveiling, towards shining, quivering naked without your armor. Art is the illusion that tells the truth. There can be no hiding. You can’t spare them the sighs, tears, or darkness. These provide contrast, the negative space from which the star glitters.

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Birds sweep through the garden. Small chirping birds. In the thicket of sage, on branches of rose, under grape leaves, on spent pumpkin vines. Hopping, they advance. A gentle wave, singular birds, a flock. They sing a song without melody. All else falls silent and still in the cool predawn. I sit with mug in hand. Three kittens huddle close together, watching through the screen.

The world is hushed by the happy inhuman music of the birds, washing from one end of the silver lighted garden to the other. A subtle procession. Mystical avian parade. A tuft of sweet alyssum catches my eye, and I recall that the fields of my childhood were full of this flower. When I asked my father its name, he called it a weed. He did not know.

With the passing of this recollection, the birds trickle away. One fat bird remains among the pumpkin vines, silently searching a leaf for prey. We hold him in our rapt attention, the final note. He flutters away. We can hear them chirping and flitting among leaves beyond the fence as their hunting party advances through the tiny enchanted backyard forests. They brought eternity with them. It lingers on us after they depart.

The brevity of forever is stunning.

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The rising sun reflects fire red upon the glass pane of a bedroom window on the east side of the house behind mine. Crimson conflagration as predawn light sets the leaves of a Japanese maple ablaze. There is something painful and exalted in looking out of the same window daily, searching for poetry, meaning, or peace. It can never really be the same window. Like the old saying about stepping into a river, you can’t look out of the same window twice. You are not the same person. It is not the same world outside.

The seasons are changing, your consciousness is sliding from one perspective to another, influenced by hormonal fluctuations as much as by life events, or minor chemical dependencies. Another cup of coffee, another sunrise, the fifth day in your reproductive cycle. Joy is teased out of these things. I hesitate to call it a mechanical assemblage of experience because those words fall like kill-joy cynicism. I don’t mean that it is only this. I mean that it is all of this and more.

Let’s leave room for magic, for spirit, for song. Tell a bird she is a mechanical assemblage of experience. This will not stop her from singing. She’ll merely blink at you with dark-eyed curiosity, determine whether you can steal her life from her or feed it, or neither. Then she’ll either fly or sing. Be untroubled by thieves of life and joy. Sing or fly. Eat a spider or two. Rejoice in the color of dawn bleeding brightly onto maple leaves. We are all in flux.

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Silver words. All I ever wanted. To weave words into spells of beauty and truth. Rainy day, and kittens watching me make spaghetti. All I ever wanted. This one day, this single perfect day. Making art. Making as much as I can. Making kitten paws warm.

In dreams, I am almost victorious. I’m growing stronger than the old wizard. And dreams float closer to the surface. Or memories. I forget which is which. The sun comes out. We need our infusion of infrared.

Never satisfied. Always spinning. And why can’t I say all I ever wanted? If I can’t say it, then I can’t have it. I will have to eat what I order. Even if it isn’t what I want. Even if it isn’t silver, true, spaghetti day. Mine is what I make. And I am almost victorious, in the sun, kitten paws warmed.

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All thumbs. That’s the feeling. Like I can’t make anything I touch work. It’s an unfair way to frame a day. But it fits. Broken computer screen. Taps on the iPad that yield no result. Lost AirPods. Found deck of cards. No cat litter. Mountains of cardboard.

A strange disconnect with others. Conversations without eye contact. Phone calls dropped. Calls that inexplicably can’t be answered. Siri asking me if I want to answer my phone, me desperately pleading, “Yes!” Waiting. Nothing. Two steps forward, one step back. Or more. Who’s counting?

Parking ticket. Wrong room-spray purchased. It smells weirdly sweet. Like a doughnut. Feelings of loss. Fear of more loss. Is this eclipse energy? I’m not in Africa. Kitten trapped in the laundry room complains when rescued.

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It’s California cold (less than 70 degrees Fahrenheit), so I bake cookies to stay warm, and the kittens complain to me after they run across the marble floor. This is their first autumn. For them, the world has always been growing warmer as long as they’ve lived. Until now. We take out the big carpets and roll them under the dining table and the living room furniture. Now there are protected places for tiny paws to run.

I put away the cotton sheets and stock the linen closet with flannel. A down blanket is exchanged for a cotton quilt. The electric blanket is brought out. Space heaters are positioned, but not turned on, not yet. We don our sweaters, search for our umbrellas, organize our jackets, and put away our shorts.

Cups of tea grow cold too fast. I choose socks that cover my ankles. Pacing in circles with a rewarmed mug in my hands helps only a little, so I bake oatmeal cookies with pumpkin seeds, flax, and chia. They smell good while they warm the kitchen. I sit at a counter and work while they bake, a savy black kitten curled in my lap.

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