Sacred Spring

T. S. Eliot who famously wrote April is the cruelest month did not live in Vermont, where we have much crueler seasons. Like January.

Yesterday, on my way from work to a grant-writing workshop, I returned home and changed from a sundress to jeans and sweater (again), but the robins are under the trees, wrenching out live worms. Daffodils splash.

Take what goodness you can get: I hold this as a mantra of single motherhood, but that’s likely my own solipsism. Vermont spring, while inevitably snowy in places, is a ubiquitous joy.

The workshop was held on the second floor of a gorgeous community art center, where I admired the artwork and the particularly pleasant shade of lavender on the walls. Last year, I was knocked out in the final round of this competitive grant; this year, I partook liberally of their snacks and chocolate, a kind of boon.

In this State 14my daughter’s rock garden appears.

There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.

— Wendell Berry

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4 thoughts on “Sacred Spring

  1. Good morning. Pale moon this morning on the dog walk gave way to warm sun on my back as I returned home to the little village. Daffodils, greening fields, pussy willows, and—finally—forsythia! It’s hard not to love it after all the waiting. I hope your nights are awash in peeper song. Good for you on the grant workshop!

  2. Nice Wendell Berry quote. Thanks for selecting and sharing, as this nugget could have gotten lost in his voluminous works.

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