Spring

I forget sometimes how much I need silence. There is something about silence that makes me feel like I need less than I might have thought, like everything might actually be... OK. Have you ever been out on a hike or walking on a spring day, or working outside during a weekend, maybe preoccupied with something that happened. Maybe worried about something that might happen, not really thinking about what you're doing at this moment, when all the sudden you breath, notice the sunshine, and realize that right now all you really need ist he feel of that sun on your skin. Somehow everything else feels further away. Not more distant, still right there, but separated from you somehow.

Every spring in Maine is the same. Everything starts to speed up in a big exciting race to the fourth of July, then swinging back toward fall, descelerating, like a pendulum. As the days get longer, more shops on main street open, traffic picks up, construction crews get working, events get flanned and put in the paper... For the most part there is a fun, exhilarating energy that comes with the quickness of spring. But as we go about in our cars, the birds are building their nests, the chipmunks are buiding their dens, the trees sproud new shoots, the bulbs blossom new tulips and the plants and flowers grow and change as quickly as an infant, in a rush to grow tall enough to touch the sun before the fourth of July. For the most part this activity is fun, exhilarating, with the same energy as a field of lightening bugs enticing each other into matrimony in a field of snow. But with all this fun the deep silence of winter disappears, and with it my ability to notice each thing, individually, and really see it. Wearry from all the activity, in the forest behind the house and on the road in front of me, I fail to appreciate the extent of the beauty and life that I've waited for all winter.

But then after a busy Sunday, when most everything is finished, just as the sun starts to go down, I hear no noise, or at least, only one noise at a time. I hear the birds chirping out back, and nothing else. And somehow the quiet of that one moment, with no talk, no engines, no music, no tv, no appliances (I have a very loud bread machine that gets quite the workout on Sundays), I'm able to recover enough, catch up to my senses. I hear not only the birds now but the ones from earlier in the day. I notice the trees across the street that are full, ad the ones not greet yet above them, seeing the different layers of growth as the blend together in new life. I can think of the events happening around town and distinguish the festivals and the farmers' markets from one another. Just one moment of quiet, stillness helps me process. Just the one moment helps me catch up to my senses and enjoy what I sensed through the day.