As the days begin to lengthen and the sun sheds more light on more of the day, you begin to notice things changing around you. I've been making the walk from home to school since the early days of January. In the midst of winter, I would walk to school in the dark, and make the trek home at dark as well, passing a bridge, a park, and many quiet abodes on my way back to mine. Recently, though, this commute has become somewhat of an experiential sojourn. I leave the office, usually around 5, at least that's what I aim for, and I exit into an often sunny evening. Students are bustling abou
t with their ipods in ears, wearing the latest spring fashions (even though it's still only about 50 degrees F outside). It's funny, but they sort of form a homogeneous mass, making them easily discernible from other members of the campus (e.g. grad students, faculty and staff). I descend a massive hill (note: this hill must be ascended every morning as well) noting the newly blooming daffodils and other spring ephemerals. I also notice that the brown hill is slowly becoming green as dormancy gives way to the great growth that must start and end before the fall. I walk past the park and enjoy the rowdiness of pee-wee t-ball and soccer being played on the newly green fields. What a freedom it must be to run and chase and fall with such abandonment. Then I turn the corner and begin to mount the second of my hills.
Recently, I have been watching an old man who is out tending to his flower beds every evening as I pass by. His back is curved from years of spinal degeneration, and his home and other buildings bear the signs of neglect. Yet, here he is, pulling weeds, raking dead humus away to reveal a carefully planned and beautifully executed series of flower beds. Purple lilies, a variety of tulips and daffodils, and snow drops emerge from their once frigid dorms in this dark earth. I don't know if he notices my observations (I'm staring at him, taking in his every move), but I find some serenity in his actions. He his methodical and calculating in his efforts to cultivate beauty.
In some way, this is what spring time is: A methodical process of bringing the world out of our wintry hibernation and into a season of tempestuous unpredictability.
I look forward to warmer days and less time at the desk. Ciao.
t with their ipods in ears, wearing the latest spring fashions (even though it's still only about 50 degrees F outside). It's funny, but they sort of form a homogeneous mass, making them easily discernible from other members of the campus (e.g. grad students, faculty and staff). I descend a massive hill (note: this hill must be ascended every morning as well) noting the newly blooming daffodils and other spring ephemerals. I also notice that the brown hill is slowly becoming green as dormancy gives way to the great growth that must start and end before the fall. I walk past the park and enjoy the rowdiness of pee-wee t-ball and soccer being played on the newly green fields. What a freedom it must be to run and chase and fall with such abandonment. Then I turn the corner and begin to mount the second of my hills.Recently, I have been watching an old man who is out tending to his flower beds every evening as I pass by. His back is curved from years of spinal degeneration, and his home and other buildings bear the signs of neglect. Yet, here he is, pulling weeds, raking dead humus away to reveal a carefully planned and beautifully executed series of flower beds. Purple lilies, a variety of tulips and daffodils, and snow drops emerge from their once frigid dorms in this dark earth. I don't know if he notices my observations (I'm staring at him, taking in his every move), but I find some serenity in his actions. He his methodical and calculating in his efforts to cultivate beauty.
In some way, this is what spring time is: A methodical process of bringing the world out of our wintry hibernation and into a season of tempestuous unpredictability.
I look forward to warmer days and less time at the desk. Ciao.
