April 28, 2012

Sun and shadow, the days lately have been full of both, clouds and blue skies creating such a patchwork, and the strobe of spots of sun causing you to wonder which will eventually dominate.  This morning, it's been a draw, some moments dark as evening, some bright as noon, some between the two.  A single blue jay woke me this morning with its crow-like voice, calling and calling, then vanishing.  The silence that came after seemed deeper by contrast.  It was still dark and too early for most other birds.  There are some mourning doves out this morning, I can hear them but don't see them yet.  The wind has died down to fitful, or restless, as the air heats later I am sure it will rise up again.

Here is a poem that reminds me of this morning, when the jay woke me.

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.

Jack Gilbert

But there's music in us . . . yes there is, even in waking to the scream of a blue jay, there are worse things that could awaken you.  It does not pay to start right in of a morning reading the news, danger and suffering do surround us.  And it is the singing that surprises, even the . . . singing of the jay in the dark.  We do persist, and not just persist, we persist and sing.  Hope does fly up, even in the face of evidence to the contrary, we believe in people, we believe in the morning, in the fact that after this one, there will be another, that contrary to notions of gloom and doom, there is still singing to be done, still the rough music of the human heart out there, walking through the mixed sun and shadow, smelling the flowers, or in my case watching the cane grow white and abundant, its leaves stripes of white changing over to green, now getting greener every morning, not yet blooming but thickening towards that day, new shoots breaking out at every joint.   The horses in the dark are a comfort, like the birds, something warm and alive out there living its own life.  Now, in this moment, it's the squirrel, racing up the tree, its cheeks bulging with food, pecans probably, looking for a place to make a stash, believing in another season, its mouth too full of now to scold the cat lying under the shed.