Witness

Post 9

Friday, April 12, 2013

4:31 pm

Even without the symbolism, spring would still be my favorite time of year. New beginnings, a fresh start, rejuvenation, new life; it has many associations but when I’m outside during the month of April and everything is a shock of green and yellow, all I need to appreciate it are the colors and the brightness.

It’s always been particularly lovely at my house in the springtime. When I’m away for a while, as I was this past week, the landscape can change so quickly that it’s hard to remember a time when snow was on the ground. I particularly noticed the wind this week. The breeze had lost its icy backing and in its place was a soft warmth. The sunshine had also lost some of the hardness in its rays and there was a softer light on the trees and my face when I closed my eyes and tilted my head up.

Today is unfortunately not a day for sitting outside. It’s a more typical rainy April day, cloudy and a bit misty which light rain falling. I walk over to look at the hydrangea because I’m more impatient for their growth this year. I suppose that since this is our last summer here at this house, I want them to grow big and beautiful as if they were saying goodbye to us. What a human response to nature, I think as I look at the green tufts of leaves just beginning to show. To fulfill my own expectations of sentimentality, I demand nature to be glorious, just for me. What a selfish way of viewing my surroundings, I realize as I hold one of the stems that are poking out of the ground outside of our laundry room window. If I left tomorrow and never returned home, the hydrangea would still bloom, still produce their giant mopheads of cerulean and royal purple. They wouldn’t wilt their leaf edges in sadness or hang their flowers a little lower to the earth. They would reach taller for the sun and drink whatever water fell on their leaves and petals. They don’t halt their beauty just because there are no witnesses. They exist gloriously without needing any measure of praise.

I sit on the wooden slider we have facing the pond and the driveway, perching gingerly on my raincoat since it is stained dark with wet. The asphalt of our long driveway turns dark gray when it rains and one side of the maple trees that line it have wet bark of the same shade. Spring is transforming, I think, redemptive almost. Just when it seems too cold and dark to bare, life blooms again. I sit and watch the rain fall with quiet drops on the pond, thankful. I am not needed as witness, but I am given the gift of drawing my own assumptions on what the new growth of hydrangea implies and the importance of the rain. It's nice in a way, not to be needed.