In a world of chaos, whether on this continent or some other, with a broken system of government led by corruption seated firmly in the pursuit of power, I am happy to waken to simple blue sky and sunshine. No one will manipulate me today. It is Saturday, and I eliminate all news programs from my view. Actually, a cup of coffee and a pastry are my greatest reach this early in the morning. Always vowing to sleep in on this day, the week behind me, and Sunday before me, I endeavor to not do anything that will disturb or upset me. I don't care, for the moment, that the media lies, the government lies, the neighbor lies, the general public lies to itself. That will keep until Monday when lie sorting is the order of the day.
For now, I will watch the birds at the feeder, listen to the soft honking of the male goose as he calls his paramour to the pond, hope for my first glimpse of a robin...robins are late this year...and ruminate on my heart's desire for this day: the coming of spring. The weatherman has promised warmer temps and I hope to see the little green noses of daffodil shoots pushing through the clay soil of my geographical location. I am a poor gardener because digging clay and hoping for hearty plants is unlike the soft stuff of my gardening mother when she breathed on this earth. She could sink her spade in up to the wooden shaft with a single thrust and turn the dirt witihout effort. The loam in which she played was rich and dark, easily sifted through the fingers, sucking water like a sponge. Quite unlike the gray cakey clay soil where I live.
Spring is later by two to three weeks in this part of the state, an annoyance for an east coast woman who by now is hoping for the goldenrod to be budding along the waving shafts of giant bushes. Here it is still winter, now witih an underlayer of promise of a soft afternoon breeze harboring a hint of hope.
Spring this year will be more free than last, in a time of physical recovery and release from fear, though trusting in that is an ongoing work. Every day is precious, and I sully it with nagging concern that cancer will rear its ugly head again, though I have fought the battle with every possible tool to stave off recurrence. I have things to do, life to live, writing to be done, trips to take. And I have the hope that got me through to begin with.
My body clings to its reminders: neuropathy in hands and feet, slight lymphodema, all conspire to make me anxious. My fingernails grow ever so slowly, as most of them have fallen off. My hair, a cap of fuzzy cotton, grew long enough to require a haircut, and is coming in with a bit of curl, but the growth rate is slow. I tell myself that this is all very normal, that I have no control over anything including my body except to care for it the best I can. That in hope or despair, the outcome will be whatever it's going to be, and that I might as well claim what is before me, and not anticipate what might never happen.
I feel really well. I can command my day's energy and be productive. I no longer need to collapse in bed, weary when half the day is over. I am engaged in living. What more is there? My spring is on its way and I look for it with every rising, glad for this day because in a place where the sun appears briefly just to remind us that it exists in some realm, today it promises to hang around until evening. In the difficult weather patterns where I live, this is a golden day, a great reward for the waiting of new life, warmth, blue skies and gentle breezes. Even the birds are singing as if they know what I long for is just around the corner, neve rmind that there will be sporadic snow before the grass is green.