Hello friends,
The sun finally came out in my little corner of the world. And I’m tempted to make an obvious metaphor about how the sunshine parting outside feels like the sunshine parting inside my head but it’s not a metaphor when you have seasonal depression. It’s quite literal.
And despite supplementing vitamin D and adding considerable amounts of it to my diet over the last six months, nothing has parted the clouds over my heart the way the pink pear blossoms and bright red tulips and budding peonies in my yard have over the last 72 hours. My backyard is brimming with dandelions, and the first fragile white butterflies are flocking to the yellow like moths to flame.
And after being so sick for the whole of last summer, and feeling so weak all winter long, I was able to do three-mile walks around my favorite park without a stitch of effort on three occasions in the last week.
It’s all had me feeling a bit celebratory, really.
And that’s meant fewer hours inside working and reading and writing for the typical essays I send out. And, like clockwork, my anxiety about the shift started roiling. This morning, I even thought about apologizing to you all that I didn’t have some long poetry reading or listicle of hot new content on other sites or personal essay crafted through hours of painful, willing intention.
And then I thought, apologize for what? For whom?
The whole reason behind this weekly newsletter was to keep myself inspired to pay attention in a deep way to the stories and poems around me, and in myself, and in those I love.
And then I look out at the big backyard with the pile of fresh, pungent pine mulch and the hot-pink buds on the apple trees and the complicated nests of dried grape vines that — when I nicked the side of the longest one with my favorite pocket knife yesterday — revealed a gorgeous lime-green heartbeat under the crumbling, dry bark.
And I believe: this is close reading, too.
I watch the bluejay who always flies into the yard from the southwest land in my favorite terra cotta pot of dormant succulents; my eyes widen as she pops an enormous seed from its soil and flies off to hide it somewhere.
I watch the enormous family of quail who live under the neighbor’s sage bushes waddle out, ducking under the low fence, to sing and peck at the seed we lay on the back porch for them. I wonder when they’ll have babies this spring and if they need a birdbath or extra tall grass.
I look at the fattest one, the one who always comes out last and whose little sprig on top his head wiggles the most when he runs, and I wonder if he’s the same chunky little baby from last May — the one who liked to hide under the rose bush with the lavender flowers that have a silvery sheen to their petals and squeak until his mom scurried over from hiding behind the spruce.
I watch my 22-pound rescue cat with no teeth and an anxiety problem roll onto his back and show his belly to the open backyard, rubbing his back in the dirt to flatten the static in his fur. I hear the low roll of his purrs emanating off of his body, feel them when I drop a soft hand onto his downy-soft tummy and scratch gentle circles.
I believe: this is the perfect time for a good day.
I believe: days like this are made for great stories.
I believe: when you, too, get weather like this, I hope you run outside into it with a paperback and a picnic and stay there all day long.
That’s where I’m headed now.
‘Til next time.
Heck yeah: "this is close reading too". It's also why when I take a book to the beach, I very rarely open it; I get caught up in clouds and waves and skittering sandelings and kids squealing and even sometimes dolphins. These swim by fast and if I'm reading I miss them.
A lovely reminder to pause and take a look around. 🖤