April Showers

Today began beautifully. There was a lovely breeze gently shuffling along the clouds that speckled the blue sky. It is Spring, and the trees and flowers are lush with greens, purples, yellows, whites. Today was pregnant with promise and beauty.

The afternoon turned the weather dark and gray with the storm clouds clipping on the heels of that blue sky. Time was lost, and moods matched the murky weather. The small wind calmed, and we were left with a balmy, moist afternoon. What once was looking up now looked askance, avoiding our gaze of hope and disappointment.

I came home this evening frustrated and exhausted from a day of taxing experiences and stressful introspection. I needed an outlet, a repose. And then time slipped quickly, stealthily by. The oncoming storm darkened the day quickly, and I fought my mood's desire to match the pace.

Storm clouds are intense because they hold, behind their unassuming gray and low-hanging billows, power and majesty. They burst at their imaginary seams, teasing us and playing with us. Like us, they conceal the fullness of their nature until it explodes from them with fury and beauty. Tonight's clouds finally broke, and there I found my haven and my release.

My younger brother and I stepped out into the night aglisten with lightning and played in the fresh-scented rain. As the heavy droplets soaked our clothes through, we kicked through muddy puddles and splattered amongst wet leaves. Gleefully, I forgot my age and my concerns. I forgot about all I have and all I desire. I forgot to care about the silliness of the moment and the seriousness of who I am or am not. It was the only responsible thing to do.

Eden

I have a favorite spot in the warmer months, on a hillside in a well-tended garden. During the Spring, it is rife with the violent colors of blooming azaleas. The wood-chip paths meander through bunches of full, enormous, wise bushes, schooling us with their subtle-but-intense colors and speckled petals, humming with bees and butterflies hard at work within their horticultural metropolis. One feels, if not an intruder or vaguely criminal, at least humbled and small when amongst this life, honored to be allowed to experience this perpetuation of creation without the smallest effort or investment as a price.

The other day, I chose a rustic wooden bench in my haven and dined on veggies as the insects danced from flower to flower to flower. An older lady passed by, her arms lovingly entwined in her husband's, and exclaimed, "There is an azalea fairy!" And I wished desperately that I was truly one of these, part of this, instead of a mere spectator, and asked, "Who? Me?" "Yes," she replied, "isn't this just beautiful!" I think perhaps she is the fairy or angel, granting me my wish, if only for a moment.

The Gardens stand tall over a restaurant nestled among trees and a carefully groomed golf course and lake. The view is scenic and green. From the other side, however, the vibrant colors are hidden behind the trees and building. It is a wonder that they do not explode and burst through. Instead, the other side is lovely but plain, and one might never believe what joyful, painful beauty it conceals. It is overwhelming to consider how much beauty we miss, forget, or do not know because it is hidden behind the plain and beneath the common.

One feels a certain invisibility here from what might ordinarily threaten. Bees buzz happily near me, but I do not fear they will sting me. We are one today, coexisting on each other's side. Today, he sees a friend in me, and so I am safe. When feeling like this in this place, I could do something truly silly like fall in love or make extravagant promises. Perhaps it is like faerie land, and when I return, I will forget my foolishness and not be held to account.

There are ferns that delicately graze just above the garden floor. I love ferns. They are, I believe, the most human of plants, with insecurities and shyness and clumsy and understated grace. When young, they curl tight and tense, turned inward, protecting themselves from the wild. They seem frightened, introspective, and even a little aloof. But with the change of season and loving care and attention, they unfurl, opening their fronds in a soft gesture of welcome. They remain quiet and reserved, but they invite you to know them and maybe love them if you might.