Catchy – that’s what the farmers call this kind of spring. The rains that pour every second day, first on one farm, then on another, and the farmer has to “catch” the field when it’s fit for planting before the next rainfall. These rains are such that you might get drenched from house door to car door at home while a few kilometers down the road the rain gauge is dry. A farmer is loath to begrudge any precipitation, but said farmer also wonders if mother nature might not jar up some of this moisture now and bring it out to serve on the dry days of July.
And speaking of the proverbial mother nature… Is she not a pleasantly seasoned, aged to a mellow and mild-mannered benign crone who lets come what may? Steeped in the wisdom of the ages? No, I think not – at least not exclusively. She has displayed a tumultuousness this spring that brings to mind the array of emotions felt by a turbulent teenager who is pmsing. Tossing her head, eyes aflashing, ain’t nobody tellin me what to do or how. But still beautiful. Oh so beautiful. From hazy, red full moons setting in the early morning over the southwest treeline that my husband beckons me to come see, to the elongated pearly heads of the snowdrops languid in the morning sun, to the ethereal scent of the lilacs gentle on the breezes, and now to the yellow roses just opening she displays her timeless beauty.
Recently, while out mowing the ditches, I saw my neighbour come out of her garden shed, her baby crooked on her hip. With a swift, sure step she went into her garden, bending and stooping low to pull a weed or plant a seed, all the while cradling her little one against her side. A young bride in a dust cap, there was the promise of spring in her vitality as she went about her labours, for all the world looking like a girl living her dream. By the time I paused the mower and walked across the road in my rubber boots for a “how does your garden grow” visit, she had set her little girl down in the grass bordering the garden. This little flowering bud looked up at me with eyes as deep blue as the sky on a summer day and took a keen interest in my hot pink gardening gloves. Her mother picked her up, and I held her, keeping the wonder of my pink gloves from being put to her mouth. She wore a homemade sun bonnet with tiny rosebuds on it which her mama untied and slid back so we could discuss the coppery hue of her hair. My neighbour asked me if I have a vegetable garden and I said that I don’t anymore. “You’re not so young anymore,” was the direct response with no trace of guile from that spring chic to this spent hen. It was a moment in time as we went about the work of spring.
In a blink of an eye and forever ago, I was that young bride cradling a freshly born infant in the freshness of the spring days. And in another blink my neighbour’s hair will lighten further into a soft silver, and she will feel the ache in her lower back after a day of digging in the gardens. The seasons with their specific work keep going ’round and ’round.
Did you know that there are ground thermometers with which a farmer can take the temperature of the field’s soil and assess the readiness of it for planting? I did not. But it’s a thing. My farmer husband explained that the thermometer gets pressed a couple of inches into the soil to get a temperature reading and the warmer the temp, the better the conditions for planting. All I could think when I heard about this was the parallel to a woman monitoring her cycle by taking her temperature to also assess the readiness of the “soil” for the “seed”.
And then there was that photo that I tore out carefully from the newspaper of the woman in Ukraine, 85 years old, leaning her head against the window of a bus which was taking her to god knows where. Her name is Liudmila. The caption with the picture said that her husband had been killed in their home after an airstrike. What is wrong with us? She wears a kerchief around her head with wisps of white hair escaping from it, and a blue plaid scarf is knotted at her neck. Her etched face resting on the glass bears the image of a deep and unbelievable sorrow, like something inside of her has been shattered.
What was her life prior to war? Did she plant a garden come spring? Stooping low over the earth, one hand to her lower back, to tuck in the onion sets, then righting herself and wiping her hands on an apron tied about her waist before picking up her hoe? Was she a mother? A grandmother? Did she and her husband sit with a glass of wine from their cellar at day’s end and watch the fading colours of the sky as night fell? The so-called sunset years have turned out to be anything but dreamy for them.
Think of her, would you? As you go about your work of this particular spring? Hold her in your thoughts. Remember Liudmila. May she know kindnesses from those near her and may she find safe shelter. May she know a certain rest and may Grace be near her.
Whatever your hands find to do in this spring season, may you (as The Teacher says) do it with your might and with goodwill to all. And let there be peace…
(thanks to my sister who described my neighbour’s response as “without guile”. That was exactly it.)
