Grow the Roses of Success

Slumping next to our slim laptop is a giant beast of a thing. (It’s not me, although there are similarities.) John borrowed an old desktop monitor last week and hooked it up to our laptop. We type on the laptop while looking at the beast, and— voila!— blog posts spring forth!

Before I forget, if you’re either a Pakistani or a Blueberry, go to buildabelly for recipes.

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Each year staid January and unyielding February uncharacteristically produce March, a temperamental trickster. We fold the disappointed short sleeves we wore on Tuesday to again unfold winter’s bulky sweaters and coats on Wednesday. We exult after walking outdoors in those woolen layers on Thursday to find a tropical paradise and birds all a’chatter in the sunlight. March is a regular grab bag, only we’re not allowed to choose. Since the perfect bridge between winter and spring is found in its intermittent warmth, I’m not complaining. I can only imagine how jarring it might be to go directly from the icicles of February to the taste of April's sweet and balmy air. March softens us up for spring in small doses and makes that air even sweeter when it arrives for a longer stay. At least that’s what I tell myself as I glance out the window at the present thick fall of flakes after having spent Wednesday soaked in sunlight, heady in the unexpected gift of sixty-five degree weather.

The advent of spring intensifies our game of musical chairs with box elder bugs. Sun again, cold again, sun again, freeze means that they wake and stretch their legs several times a week, blinking in surprise when I toss them outdoors. About ten minutes ago, I looked down to find one crawling on me. The cheerful bits of orange on its black shellback weren’t a saving grace, though I did watch his deliberate progression up the knob of my knee before I sent him outside.

Birdsong increases each day, heralding the advancing steps of spring. Our bedroom is my favorite room in the house, for aesthetic reasons, mostly, but also because of the noises that surround us as we sleep. Ugly stepsisters they may be, some starlings made it their nest last summer and, shortly after our move, we saw four young birds booted out to find their way in the world. I don't know if some of those same birds grew up and moved back home, but I like their flap and flutter when I toss in the night, and on mornings like this one, I like awakening to Susannah squawking out a request to nurse on one side of me, while the rattling echoes of harsher, smaller notes sound on the other side of the drywall. Fingers of sunlight reach through the blinds, I indulge in the luxury of a good stretch, while the birds in the walls and the Bird beside me join voices.

There's more to life than spring and bugs and birds, but I’m tired of being on the computer.

Another time.

Abrupt End.