This is the time of year I love most (even if my allergies disagree).
The birdsong and frog song, the succession of blooming plants, the longer days, and the shifts between sunshine and rain.
I’m finishing up a project that I’ll be sad to leave. I love the characters, the setting, the story. I’m sure I’ll be doing future revisions and edits, shifting and changing, but for now, I’m going to move onto the next big thing.
These moments of shifting can feel good. “Hey, I finished a book!”
Yet, I can also feel unsure.
The possibility awaits: wonderful and scary; exciting and daunting; a dash forward and a long pause. All those contrasts hit me, freeze me.
I’m back to the act of creating again. The pen to the notebook–
I want time to stop. With the cherry tree blossoms just about to drop and the lilacs just opening, this phase of spring sings perfection.
In an American literature course a million years ago we read poetry. When we analyzed Whitman’s “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” we discussed the theme of grief and considered the pastoral elements in the poem.
What about the lilacs?
“Have you ever smelled lilacs?” Dr. Chianese, our professor, asked us.
Most of us had not. We were Los Angeles types moved by scent of jasmine and orange blossoms. We had no source of reference.
I now understand Dr. Chianese’s question, for the scent of a lilac is truly exquisite, ephemeral, and unique. The short space of time when Whitman contemplated the death of President Lincoln, and I rejoice in the rebirth of the garden.