26
Archangel
A New Kind of Spring Words & Photo: Melanie Jones
S
pring is
about being alive, reborn, not just on the calendar but visibly in nature. The turn of the weather, from early, cold nights to longer days with hot sun and cool air energizes us, luring us outdoors from after school to beyond bedtime. The delicate peonies bloom like fragrant pompoms, cheering for spring in all her glory. Baby bunnies peek out of the bushes and learn to hop across the yard, while bluebirds dart in and out of their houses with their electric blue wings flashing through the sky. You can sense the hum, the buzz, the collective energy of life. Spring is normally a frenetic time in our home. Three March birthdays to celebrate, lacrosse to be played and coached, the peak season for real estate sales — and Holy Week in the home of a priest — the demands on our time keep us barely hanging on through April. But not so much this year. Like everyone else, we’ve rarely left home except for essentials, which is odd for a family that uses a digital calendar with nine color codes to keep everyone in the right place on the right day. We clean and organize and weed. We bake bread, make soup, then strawberry shortcake as the berries come into season. We eat family meals and attend church together — which never happens much anymore, so we don’t care that it’s digital. I like not arguing to get the girls in the car on Sunday mornings. We Zoom call with friends and some of us drink. Maybe too much some nights. It seems to be a marker
that another day — one awfully similar to the day before — has ended. We appear to have become European, an occasional glass of rose at lunch, walking everywhere and chatting with neighbors as if we have all the time in the world. The dog thrives. He eats homemade treats and tolerates all-day snuggling. He has basked in multiple trips to the farm to chase deer — his true calling on this planet. I walk him on the greenway, tuning into podcasts, listening to voices of reason who are also struggling. The collective grief the world is experiencing, for the life we once had, is complex and large, just like the virus itself. But Frosty scampers along, tormenting squirrels and splashing in Crabtree Creek. The other day, while lounging on the bed with his floppy ears in my hand, I realized he will be the last family dog we get while all the girls live under this roof. And it grieves me already, this thought. While quarantine feels as though it has lasted forever, time still passes quickly. I have enjoyed this time of the great global pause button. Am I selfish to say that? My kids seem well rested, we have had time to ride bikes and swing, and do nothing. The weather has been a true gift. Twenty years of yard work have been crammed into this one season. I practice yoga to connect with the earth and myself and to learn how to really breathe.
Some scenarios say it isn’t safe to see them until the summer of 2021. What if one dies before then? That thought I brush away. I miss my friends and those unexpected encounters with a familiar face that ground me. There is nothing random these days; everything is planned, avoided or canceled. When the monkey thoughts dance across my brain, I try to nudge them quickly out. Sometimes they spew out my lips and toward those around me. We chip at nail polish and each other. We cry as another game or awards ceremony or graduation party gets crossed off the calendar. There was some bargaining about EOGs and exams being worth it if we could just see our friends. We yell and stomp out of boredom and fear. What if camp is cancelled? What if lacrosse recruiting tournaments are over? What does the new normal look like and when will it come to fruition? We just don’t know, but did we ever? So much of life was a grind, a push toward the next and the next and the next. And now? We hear the birds chirp, loudly and all day. Are they, too, more present and refreshed or am I just now present enough to notice?
Of course I worry about the health care workers, mental health, money and tuition — my aging parents who have not left home for seven weeks. Melanie Jones is a Realtor but wishes she were a writer. She has a lot of questions for God.