It finally really, really feels like spring here in New Jersey.
When my kids were in daycare, they’d go on walks each day, and some times (I’m sure to keep the kids occupied as they looped the same couple of blocks) the walks were themed. Each year around this time they’d start looking for signs of spring.
I’ve been doing the same—looking for what’s growing, what’s about to bloom, what’s blooming. Neighbors half a block down have a beautiful bed of tulips that are closed up each morning and open in the afternoon. I’m not a gardener, and I don’t know the names of plants or flowers or birds, but the act of noticing has been really important to me.
Today, take yourself on a signs of spring walk.
today’s exercise
Go for a walk and look for signs of the season. You could make this a no-phone walk and just look around, or you could take your phone and capture your photos. (But don’t share/post/etc until you get home—the idea is that the phone is a way to be more present as you’re walking.)
If you want to write, you could start with really concrete sensory description of what you notice—not just color but also scent and movement, maybe the tactile experience of a petal or a new leaf as well. But you could also just use the walk as a way of moving slowly and making a little space in your brain.
a spring poem
Last year at this time I was teaching a Lifelong Learning class on reading poems, and we themed it around spring. We read this Dora Malech poem, Each Year, which many folks found a bit perplexing, but in a productive way. I’ve been thinking about how wonderful that class was and wanted to share the poem with you. (It’s the source of the subtitle for today’s newsletter.)
Each year
Dora Malech
I snap the twig to try to trap
the springing and I relearn the same lesson.
You cannot make a keepsake of this season.
Your heart's not the source of that sort of sap,
lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft,
though for a moment it's your guilty fist
that's flowering. You're no good host to this
extremity that points now, broken, back at
the dirt as if to ask are we there yet.
You flatter this small turn tip of a larger
book of matches that can't refuse its end,
re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget
again. Here's a new green vein, another
clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.
You cannot make a keepsake of the season, but you can do your best to be present for it as it happens.
How is your writing going? Did you see anything interesting on your walk? I’d love to hear from you. You can always reply to this email, comment below, or find me on twitter (@nancy_reddy) and instagram (@nancy.o.reddy).