Almost "in [Just-]"* Spring

So already, yesterday morning, the WBZ radio weatherwoman reminded us that next Sunday we turn the clocks ahead. It's hard to imagine that the dark time is practically over, especially because it wasn't nearly as dark (and white) and daunting this year as it was last. And it's hard to acknowledge how quickly the time has flown since we turned back the clocks last fall.

There have been other assurances of the annual seasonal shift: last Monday, the Channel 7 weatherman proclaimed the beginning of "meteorological spring"--which, a function of temperature and atmospheric conditions, runs from March 1 to June 1, and which is distinct from "astronomical spring," which begins with the equinox and depends on the position of the sun.

Quincy's Black's Creek

Despite the spring hype, despite all the temporal demarcations and their explanations, "the time of singing"* the Song of Songs talks about isn't here yet. And it won't be for some weeks.** Instead we stand at that transitional moment that seems to belong to neither winter nor spring. Winter's wiped the world clean, flattened it, bleached it, left it in a state of pristine beige-gray blankness that almost warms when the sun shines and that hunkers down again when the clouds or winds dominate. In almost [Just-] spring, it's too soon for even the first emerald nub of some heat-and-light-sensing skunk cabbage to poke through the earth's porous crust.

I especially love the field in front of our cabin in almost [Just-] spring. Our cabin is in New York state just over Berlin Mountain from Williamstown, Massachusetts, where, thanks to the mountain weather, the look of almost [Just-] spring often lasts well into April. For a period of weeks, even as the days grow warmer, matted goldenrod and the snow-crushed thorny tangle from the last growing season lie like taupe lace on the beige layer of short-cropped dry grass. It's the only time of the year that, like the deer we see gliding and feeding at dusk in the green months, we can walk anywhere in the field without getting nicked, scratched, or vine-ensnared. 

There's something exhilarating and humbling about being able to cross that field as the crow flies and as the deer bounds--a privilege that lasts only until the sun and earth get to collaborating, and the field becomes a paean to growing. At the same time, the combination of no undergrowth and bare branches makes the woods transparent and unusually penetrable; the land's contours rise like bones, reminding us that the land's story is much older than the trees. While it's still too cold and too silent to be [Just-] spring--no wood frog choruses singing from vernal pools just yet--the sun has moved from its winter place. Seeing the bareness, hearing the silence, we feel grateful and excited to be standing at the threshold of another season of life--and we say so.**

I'm generally someone who needs to clear the decks, to make some physical and mental space in order to create. In fact, sometimes I've wondered if the act of physical de-cluttering parallels a mental process of seeing, seeing through, seeing into, and seeing beyond. And still, at many other times, I've wondered if my "intentional" cleaning and organizing collude with me to help me avoid creating. My husband Scott, a serious oil painter, has often counseled me to get going with creating now, not when or after . . .. "What you write might not be good," he's said to me often, "but that's okay. Just write."

So I was surprised when I visited his studio last Saturday that he'd put away so many of the paintings that I've grown used to seeing there. "The Birth of Abraxas," is too cumbersome to be easily moved and stored, but its neighbors now are only white walls, windows and expanses of floor. Against the beige-gray of the wall where Scott usually works--where he paints, photographs, pins sketches and photos that might inspire paintings--just a few just-photographed paintings and several paintings that are on his mind or someone else's for some reason. 

When I asked Scott what all this blank space was about, he said he was making room--in his head, in his mind--for the new. 'Tis the season. Scott's studio has become a blank canvas. I can't wait to see what gets painted there. And I'm inspired to get going anew, too.

Outside of my window, the day's soft gray skies are being mediated by some stealth pale sunshine. It's looking like a good day for a walk by the Black's Creek salt marsh and the chance to check out the latest chapter of almost [Just-] spring. I can't walk across that marsh as the crow flies, but I can still go there and be there.

* The title of e.e. cummings famous poem, which I refer to again later in this blog post: cummings, e.e. "[in Just-]." Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. 06 Mar. 2016. 
** For me, it's a moment for the Shehecheyanu blessing: “Blessed are You Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe who has given us life, sustained us, and allowed us to reach this day.” (MJL Staff. "The Shehecheyanu Blessing." My Jewish Learning. My Jewish Learning, n.d. Web. 07 Mar. 2016. <http://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-shehechiyanu-blessing/>.)
** You can see Scott's paintings at www.scottketcham.com.