“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

5.03.2013

where once nothing stood


the catawba tree is blooming, and i do what i do every year, i go out there and stand underneath it and stare up through its branches and blossoms, into the sky it seems to touch, and imagine it as home - i would sleep over there, i think, and breakfast with the birds on that branch there - and i point a camera at it, into it, from west, east, north, and south, in early morning sun-arise, at dusk and almost dark, in afternoon heat and wind and thunderstorms, and i never ever get it, that elusive image that would say without words all the things i feel when the blooms are falling.  neverever.  i am not photographer enough.

it is the time of year when we fall between the pinks of spring and those of summer, and in my neighborhood, on my little block in fact, the pinks are gone for good, leaving behind whites and some yellows, leaving lots of green and skies that will be what they choose, but which will choose mostly blue.  by june it will just be green beyond my door.  green and honeysuckle, heat and a red brick road.  this morning is cold, however, one last trick by a winter that refuses to go gently into that good night, and by cold i mean i have fire in the heater but my feet are still bare, and the honeysuckle along the creek is fat and full and embracing the sun.

this small place i call mine, that at least twice a year feels too confining and full of tired memories, is still the place i stay, despite threats to its walls to just leave and adios, thank you.  it has heard its share of cursing, and yet, here i am.  still.  the trees are sure things to help me mark my calendar, i know the time of year by the slant of the sun across the road.  and despite the feeling that nothing changes, things do, held steady by the things that don't.

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this year we are using the back yard.  my mother's picnic table calls us.  we have moved lawn furniture from the side yard to sit next to the back porch.  we sit in the sun and read, and earlier this week, michael decided it was too nice outside to eat lunch inside.  there are white flowers in a planter and neighbors stop by with wine.  the neighborhood still holds sway over our lives, and my mother's cat at last calls it home.

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7 comments:

  1. this transported me, to a lovely place, and i stood there feeling the sun on my skin.

    "and despite the feeling that nothing changes, things do, held steady by the things that don't"
    ... yes. this has been the theme in my life lately, and i have struggled against it, but i am beginning to surrender. and that's a good thing. change comes in waves and washes over us, washes us clean, sometimes. but then there we are, all naked and fresh and basking in the sun.

    xoxo

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    1. i thank god for the things that don't, and try to embrace the things that do. i fail a lot. :)

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  2. i never ever get it, that elusive image that would say without words all the things i feel when the blooms are falling. neverever. i am not photographer enough.

    Maybe images are just not human enough.

    I love this east texas juju with a lot of love right now.

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  3. you have captured the beat of a spring neighborhood and a private sanctuary..how we must embrace these days as summer is around the corner ! love your writing as always and am so happy to stop by your space ...xo

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  4. you are enough. i do identify what you mean. but you are amazing and beautifully, impefect as all things in nature are. Be well.

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  5. I can just imagine your little neighbourhood coming to life, filling with colour.
    And I love that you and your neighbours gather together to share a little sun and a little wine.

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  6. This whole post sings of springtime and greening and flowering, of time spent sitting under blossoming trees and tall glasses of cold lemonade. How I wish I was there too - we still have a way to go.

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