Transfer #18 from Blogspot

No Sunday Meditation Today


since I've been so remiss about posting this week.  For that, I apologize.  What can I say? Work, work, work.  It's busy.  Anyway.  (Okay, trying to do any kind of writing with Sam around is just – it's difficult.  It's like me at a desk ignites some primal man-need in him.  He has been studying up stairs ALL DAY and just now he comes down to inform me that (1.) his finals are going to be really, really hard, (2.) We need paper towels, and (3.) he's thought about it, and he'd like chicken piccata for dinner.

Virginia Woolf, I hear you, sister.
Lord have mercy.

How was your week?  Here in southern Michigan it's the time of year we all wait for, when the air warms up just a bit, the ground softens slightly, and people come spilling out of their homes to play football, jog, chase the dog and build forts.  It is by far one of the best times of year, with the promise of summer nearby.  I've had two lovely runs in the past three days, and I witnessed the following things:

1. Mallard ducks investigating the pond near my house – a hen has begun laying her eggs beneath a bench in the park.

2. A tree-full of robbins

3.  A young mother and her sun swinging at the nearby playground, both hanging upside down with their legs linked around the swing's chains, both laughing wildly.

4. A rose-streaked sunset across the above mentioned pond, the pond reflecting the pink light back to the sky and the balmy, soft evening taking this dirty little suburban pond and turning it into some exotic lagoon, birds in low flight just ruffling the ater's surface.

5. Teenage boys and girls everywhere, on roller blades and skateboards and bikes, jogging and waving at slower, larger me, giving me the thumbs up, saying hi, calling me ma'am.

I remember as a child being so excited this time of year – able to shed the snow suit and moon boots for a plastic slicker or rain jacket and playing outside for the first time in the sandbox my dad built for me.  While sometimes I  covet the warmth and continuous sunshine of the south, I also wonder if those in such stable climates lose out a little bit.  There's something archaic about the change of seasons, in watching winter slowly melt into spring, and spring blossom into summer, summer succomb to fall and fall give way to the frozen ground and cold winds of winter.  I no longer think I have a favorite season – my favorite time of year happens four times,  when the air subtly changes and a new season begins.

I am not only seriously behind on my own blogging, but I'm behind in reading my favorite bloggers, so for now I'll leave with every intention of returning Tuesday to regularly scheduled blogging. Up next? The Weight of Woman.  Or perhaps, some slightly less punny title.

This entry was posted in Everything In Between, Michigan Meditations, The Private. Bookmark the permalink.

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