Ferdinand at the opening of Dallas Blooms at the Dallas Arboretum
So yesterday Al shares a few pictures of the opening of Dallas Blooms at the Dallas Arboretum.
Of course the first thing we notice is Ferdinand.
But then I see Color. Green grass. And blossoms. Spring, real spring. Sunlight so golden I can feel the warmth. I imagine the smell, not of the flowers so much as the sun on the grass, on the soil, warm dirt… Bob points to the two people sitting on the bench and we realize how odd and out of place that is in our world here and now. You don’t just sit outside to chat, contented and easy like that. Where’s the snow? The snow suits? The obvious signs of being cold? These figures are not hunched and huddling with arms wrapped about their chest, and faces buried under helmets or wool caps. These folks look comfortable.
Texas in March.
One aspen on a snowy hillside yesterday in Colorado
Colorado in March.
Here, the snow is coming down again. It began yesterday morning, and continues still. In the early morning light, the half moon a defused but distinct glow behind a sheer layer of clouds, it’s looking like we got nearly another foot. Add it to the collection. The more the merrier.
Heavy, thick wet white chunks falling from the sky. The temperature is nearly thirty. We are not used to warm snows. It sticks to skis and snowshoes and soaks into mittens and jeans. Great for building snowballs and snowmen. Bob wonders if we’d have the talent to build a Ferdinand out of snow.
As the light slowly swells this morning, I look about. Our world remains still, cold, white, colorless and muted. A pencil drawing, only shades of gray. There are no crayons, no colors, no vibrant lights.
I think of Ferdinand and remember the colors, green and growing. I, too, long to hold a fragrant blossom to my nose. I ask Bob where he’d rather be right now. He answers without hesitation. Here. Where ever here may be. He is happiest here with me and Forrest, in all this snow, two, maybe three feet surrounding us. We will not be moving to a warmer climate.
Me, I wonder for just a moment. I could be gardening. Dirt beneath my finger nails. I could be riding. I could be smelling rich soil and fragrant blossoms and the fresh sweat on a horses back.
And then I consider, what matters most?
I think of the comfort this snow brings us. Time. This lingering season. Change is slower to come here. We have longer to hold onto the past. We bury our troubles in this heavy snow. A blanket of white which bides us time, our opiate, allowing us to hold on to bygone days, bygone ways, a little longer. How I long for a clear path to the future, though. Guess I better get digging, don’t you think?
I am here, and for a while, there is no place I would rather be.
While the boys still sleep in the peacefulness that comes with the silent falling snow, I slip on my heavy boots and break trail to feed the horses.
spruce trees in yesterdays snow