I will return next week to include a few more stories from the La Brea Tar Pits, but as I move towards a family weekend and Easter observances I can’t seem to hold my enthusiasm for methane and prehistoric swamps.
Perhaps my lack of focus is partially due to the time I spent this afternoon making cookies with Sophia and Karina.
Or you could say that I supervised them as they slathered frosting and liberally sprinkled!
Nothing says “home-made” like icing and sprinkles with a five and three-year-old. They have been on spring break from school and I’ve enjoyed more time with them.
And our family will gather together on Sunday as we have been doing for as long as I can remember.
But I’ve been mindful of the similarities as well as differences in all of our circumstances and experiences this time of year.
We may not all observe Easter, but we are all observing a change in seasons–just a bit differently perhaps.
While I have been gushing over the beauty of springtime, I’ve also been reading posts written from around the world leaving me spellbound at our often dramatically different interpretations of March.
Several have commented that weather has been so harsh Easter will be spent close to home. Families accustomed to traditional church services are not so sure they will brave the ice and snow this year.
Others have said they won’t be gathering with friends and family, instead opting for the warmth and safety of staying close to home.
I’m also hearing from friends in the Southern Hemisphere remarking that the summer landscape is changing into its fall clothing.
I went on a search for a poem I recall first reading in school long, long ago.The poem by William Carlos Williams describes spring from a point of view that’s a bit foreign to my experience.
I found it again tonight and thought I’d share it for those of you watching for signs of spring. Because you have shared with me, I now read this poem with a much fuller understanding.
Spring and All
By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast — a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines —
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches —
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind —
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined —
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance — Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted they
grip down and begin to awaken