renoir painting.jpg

OMG… Overwhelm…

…  there is so much beauty surrounding me when I step outside my door each morning this week… although…

… my neighbours don’t seem to agree when they catch a rogue glimpse of me in my PJ’s … Eyes on your own property!

I feel like I’m walking within a revered and historic painting.

The Sistine Chapel in my lap.

Renoir and Monet and Van Gogh have spent the night hours artistically brush-stroking a setting for my feast of the morning.

The palette of blues – some pale, some shimmering – where Okanagan Lake and the clear, cloudless sky kiss good morning is like looking into an infinite cosmos.

Spring.

Oh, it’s not only visual beauty, the almond and tulip, the honeysuckle and daphne… but also the musical sounds, the intoxicating scents, the touch of the warm air on my skin.

The white-crowns and California Quail serenade like a morning coffee percolator, the Ponderosa pines perfume the still air, the just-awakened sun gently massaging my shoulders in a genial hug.

It’s a horn-of-plenty and it’s a vernal geyser.

Okanagan Spring.jpg

Beauty of all kinds is deliciously special to us because of its rarity, like isolated gemstones buried fathoms beneath the earth’s surface.

When we cast our eyes or ears on the spring splendour, it’s all the sweeter because we’ve waited and lived by the gate of delayed gratification, like the virginity stop sign that holds back our ardour well past that other gate, the gate of fleshly desire.

Winter’s chill days have migrated north and a new flock of days… longer, milder days… have wandered into this area to feed and grow fat in our valleys and hills before pulling up stakes once more in daylight-dwindling October to depart with the Snowbirds.

Springtime is the sweetest, juiciest bite of the seasons.

Antonio Vivaldi knew this when he captured it in his violin concerto of Spring.

In the spring, at the end of the day,
you should smell like dirt.

Margaret Atwood

But the real reason I love and crave spring so much isn’t merely about the artistic, it’s also about physics and energy.

We all pretty much know that energy is neither created nor destroyed (my Grade 11 Physics class taught me something, right) ? It exists everywhere, sometimes sitting in silent repose, patiently waiting to reveal its vitality.

Spring, for me, is when that cooped up, dusty old energy hibernating inside me like a spore, a spore that for months or years awaits the perfect moment to return to growth, comes bustling to the surface, crying out for its orgasm.

Yes, orgasm, it’s that powerful.

California Quail.jpg

The energy unleashed on a mild spring day feels exhilarating, boundless and inspiring.

Everything and everyone bustles in the outdoors, it’s as if an Orange Is The New Black prison break has occurred and everyone jumps into the enticing pond just beyond the fences.

The outdoor markets of cities and towns sprout tables of green onions and lettuce where children rush and gambol between them like frisky young lambs.

Even the sounds of lawnmowers and leaf blowers and hedge trimmers aren’t so annoying when the backdrop is fresh, new growth from lush plantings.

The unforgivable becomes happily tolerable when the air is alive with hummingbirds and robins and peach blossoms.

Today… this week… I must sip and savour all of this wonder, this perennial miracle of spring.

I have no excuse to let it slip unnoticed, unappreciated, unloved.

As I wander the pathways of my garden, surrounded by Lily-of-the-Valley sprouts and the soft cooing of the chickens, I inhale deeply into my pores.

When I am gone from this earth, I’ll not need worry about the existence of a heaven.

Each year for many decades now, I’ve been given a front row seat to this heaven that exists in my mortal world.

It doesn’t ask anything from me other than to pay attention and maybe not ruin it all by insisting on wearing my pyjamas outside.

Pyjamas outside.jpg

Ah… Yeahhhhhh!