Sweet Spring Dreams

I've had spring fever for weeks, and tonight, for the first time in a while, I indulged in an after-work walk along the center valley bike path in Twinsburg.

It's been a long winter, not merely because of the weather, but because of the darkness, the cold, the confusion. Spring is always my favorite season because I clear out the mental clutter along with the other clutter, start to pull out dead plants and weeds and uproot unhealthy things, and make room for new growth. I have a lot of growing to do -- and based on how my pants fit today, a bit of shrinking, as well. Hence the brisk pace for the duration of my three-mile trek.

I had my tunes along and was enjoying a variety of old timey -- Art Stamper, Dirk Powell. At one point the music was down to a simple fiddle tune, and in the background, I could hear the sweet spring song of the frogs coming up from their muddy winter slumber. That sound has long been dear to me. I recall standing around a huge pond in pitch dark with friends out in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, silent except for the bellowing bullfrogs. I remember as a little girl in the country hearing the chirping of the frogs and crickets and other night creatures wafting into my bedroom window, lulling me to dreams.

The only life I ever really wanted was the simplest kind, with love and music at the center. Spring always makes me feel close to that desire.

As I listened to a simple tune played by Dirk Powell, I intentionally stopped to include the frogs, and imagined what it might be like to sit on some porch far from here with someone dear and listen to an ancient melody supported only by those other night noises, the scent of my youngest child's hair and the gentle kiss of her breathing against my cheek while she slumbers on, and the thoughtful gaze of my son up at the night sky while he takes in each phrase. We are at once past, present, future, the ancient united with the living, the sounds of an old mountain song overlaying the busy drone of night animals and light of stars and maybe, in the distance, headlights heralding the coming and going of other people with other histories under other parts of the same night sky blanket.

That for me is divinity.

Little Satchel