MAY 6, 2020 – I write this from the back porch, where I can see the slow, then sudden progress of spring in this part of the world—the greening of the grass, a small insurgency of dandelions, blossom buds on the neighbor’s apple tree, lilacs showing visual hints of future fragrance, small tender leaves emerging on the maple sapling, unorganized clusters of day lilies in the garden, and legions of lily of the valley shoots standing straight and in tight formation along the alley, like Medieval crusaders marching east under the favor of a bright morning sun.
The birds, meanwhile, chirp, call, sing, and whistle away, confident that they’re now, finally, in the clear of winter.
An air of optimism passes lightly across the scene. My heart and mind yield to this cautiously. During breakfast I glanced at a few headlines of “human news” and found reason enough not to pry any further. Ignorance is bliss—or more accurately, is more healthful . . . than knowing too much about humankind’s wreckage.
As these precious moments mature into the fuller day; as construction crews re-invigorate the alley atmosphere with sounds of progress; as I tend to office work remotely, then repair to the circus that is our garage (see yesterday’s post), the earth will turn and by illusion push the sun into higher orbit. And like so many people even in the know, I’ll not be able to shake the notion that the sun revolves around us.
Yet, to how many other illusions do I subscribe—believing fully that they are steadfast truths? Doubtless they are as numberless as those legions of Medieval knights along the alley. With the sun in their faces, they stand ready and eager to begin their march in the name of Christendom; to serve their Lord and lords; to free the Holy Land of infidels; to do what is right and best, as they understand what is right and best. Likewise, upon the saddle of a cushioned wicker chair and armed with a cup of caffeine, I join the knights of the day. I’m ready to march into the sun, knowing that with each passing day it will ride higher and higher until . . .
. . . the summer equinox. Then, as the sun line falls and darkness increases, well . . . er, uh . . . I’ll have to start adjusting my allegiance. In fall and winter, hope here no longer rides with Apollo but relies on Orion as he commands the moon and stars on long, cold, crisp nights.
All of these musings lead me back to the bright spring morning in the backyard, where just now a robin has landed. I watch it hop and poke to find some food, then to hop some more and look about. It lives in the moment for the moment, as each of us must live.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
