There's something about a 58-degree day in February after blizzards, bad news about the state budget, and being hit by a fast-moving virus that makes all wrong in the world right again. As the snow melts at the speed of sound, the birds twirl in circles instead of shivering by the bird feeder, and the sunlight floods the bed where my feet rest as I type this, it's clear that this kind of day is a clearing in the woods, a safe harbor in the storm, an oasis in the desert. It's rare, somewhat unexpected, beaming with blue light and generous: here for the taking and giving.
Yesterday, I feverishly distracted myself from illness on the computer, and tomorrow I fly to Vermont. Last week was full of little trips here, there and yonder, and next week I’ll dance down that rabbit hole into the Brigadoon of the residency at Goddard College. But now life is holding out its hand, and I’m stepping into this particularly moment, a scout sent early by spring to tell us, “Yes, this is how it can be and be will be again: birdsong, light breeze, wide light and vast lightness that makes movement and stillness easy and free.” So I’ve left some footprints in the snow and mud, and maybe I’ll leave some more before the chill of night covers up this day.
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