hope

I am surprised to find winter doldrums in this country—although, I suppose they are not in this country, but my own heart/mind. I always attributed this malaise to the weather in Minnesota, the grey days and long nights with inclement conditions for these old bones. It was this time last year that I entertained the idea of leaving—a time of unrest. Even as I write this at my desk with a breeze I am covered with a sheen of sweat and a coil of it roll down my throat. No, it’s not the weather. Perhaps it is because I have always either been a student or a teacher, and have the rhythm of school in my bones. But here I am with bougainvillea blooming outside my window and I have the blues. Perhaps it is because Sylvia, Lydia, and Tim have come and gone. . .Pat and Ned. . . and I see what I am missing. Perhaps it is because I no longer marvel at chartreuse and pink houses, but pass them like the taupe ones in Church hill farms. The faces I pass everyday on my scooter are familiar now, as are their habits, and mine. I am not astonished when I ride my bike.
So today I recognized this and actively sought beautiful moments on the way to work. I took a new route, and got tangled up in streets that don’t run parallel. Backtracking, and backtracking again I saw a small girl, maybe 6 years old with a very small scrawny plant outside of her very dilapidated palm house. She had dug a hole and was planting it amongst the trash. I stopped my bike and watched her pump a glass of water to feed it, and then she stood back and admired her work and clapped her hands. The plant had one white flower growing on it, and drooped its’ head, but held the promise of life. These moments are everywhere—scattered broadside by a generous hand if only one watches for them.