“The time of the singing of birds,has come.” It is officially spring. I do not consult a calendar to know when the seasons change. I watch the landscape and note the changes. I understand the science of how humans interpret the arrivals of seasons, but the cherry trees really have “the say”, I think-along with the songbirds. Blackbirds fly when they ought to and bluebirds set up housekeeping without needing consultation.
Frost covered the fields and pastures this morning, so my geraniums still sit in the windowsill, of the old house at the rabbit patch. My winter coat remains in a handy location and just might til mid April.
The purple Martins have yet to return. No other bird sings like the Martins. Martins winter in South America and there they learn to sing songs like the tropical birds, with all sorts of trills. Daddy has had Martin houses as long as I can remember. Right around his birthday (March 15th), we would look for the “scouts”. They are the early birds , and the “elders”. Martins often return to the same community for the breeding season. The elders have been there before, and so they survey the familiar sight to see if it is still suitable. I have read that they recognize the humans where they nest. I wonder how many generations have known my parents. Several times, daddy’s birthday has marked the first sightings of the birds that look purple in sunlight and sing in the ” language of flowers”. Many springs I have hung clothes on the line, while a purple martin sang.
I have really missed the children this week. My holiday was just long enough, for me to get used to all of us being together. I have tried to stay especially busy, because of that. There is no shortage of things to do, but no matter how much I try, I manage to pine for their company. Not even, the ice cream cake, left from the Christians’ birthday party has comforted me-and believe me I tried that on more than one occasion. This weekend, I plan to begin the spring clean up on the rabbit patch territory. Just the thought of it, makes me weary, but it is rewarding work and may put an end to my whining about the kids growing up . . .again. There are several sections of the picket fence in need of repair and all sorts of debris to be picked up. There is also the mowing. Work always helps me keep things in their proper perspective.
On the week ends, I pretend I am a writer. I do not imagine to be famous. I do not imagine, I have any great wisdom that the world is in need of, either. I just pretend to be a writer that earns enough to have bread and hyacinths. Imagination is a wonderful saving grace. We always tend to think it is best suited for childhood, but it is imagination that allows your heart to feel the plight of fellow humans. I think that compassion is a direct result of imagination. When I have found myself in a quandary, imagination allows me to see past it, and believe I will come through it-and that all will be well again. Lyla is just now starting to pretend. Her aunt “B” gave her a lovely little kitchen. Lyla cooks and serves us empty plates and empty cups . If we drop a dish she says “uh-oh!” and sets to cleaning it up. We take this “play” very seriously-she and I. I try never to disturb her when she is pretending- besides, sometimes, it is nice to have tea with a fairy, I think.
Dear rabbit patch diary, tonight, the house is chilly enough to warrant, I sit beneath a soft blanket. I will need the winter coat in the morning, again and- I will notice the poor condition of the yard on the way to the car, but I can also imagine that the wild violets will awaken soon, and the purple martins will come-and it won’t be too long before the geraniums will be blooming- on the rabbit patch porch .