Spring and the Moon of Liberation

Sunday gratefuls: Mental energy. Physical energy. Emotional balance. Support. Driving. Agency. Diet. Mini-splits. Dr. Josy.

Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.

Sparks of Joy and Awe:  The night sky

 

Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. Seeing the aspen and the lodgepoles. Seeing Artemis.

Tarot: Four of Vessels, boredom. “…you may be overlooking new opportunities due to inward focus, fatigue, or dissatisfaction. It suggests a need to break routines and re-engage…” I have let fatigue and pain reshape, and narrow, my daily life.

One brief shining: Spring rising on the Great Wheel. Last Samhain–Summer’s End–I was still harvesting. A strong hint. Something’s wrong. Missed it in my joy over fresh tomatoes.

 

 

Samhain to Spring. My harvest extended well into November. I had planted late, in July, because Artemis took a while to finish. Seeing how the irrigation worked, tuning the heater and the exhaust fan for optimal tomato conditions, perhaps a chance to harvest some lettuce. That’s all I imagined.

The warm fall, which would extend into a warm, almost snowless winter, allowed the beets, spinach, kale, and tomatoes to continue growing, producing. I harvested these, plus a cucumber or two, until the nights grew too cold.

The garlic went in in early November, while I was still harvesting cherry tomatoes.

All of November, then December and January, now February and March I waited. To see snow fall among the lodgepoles. To have a quiet, white day. A fire in the fireplace.

Spring came nine days ago. Shadow Mountain went straight to summer. Wildfire risk: Extreme. Denver hit the nineties. I slept almost naked.

I have seventy-nine winters. None of them were like this one. Watching the snow fall. Sleeping in a cold bedroom. Bundling up to go out. Yes. Wearing a short sleeve shirt in March. No.

Time and the climate. Out of joint. We earn our spring through winter’s cold and ice. No contrast.

Lodgepole needles are brittle. Aspens, confused, push out buds. Elk herds have already started coming down to lower meadows. The Black Bears have been up and raiding garbage cans for a couple of weeks.

I asked Jackie, a fly fisherperson, whether she’d been out yet. “No,” she said, “The streams are too low.” Maxwell creek, in another year, would be deep and fast as the winter’s snow cover begins to melt. No snow to melt.

Trump says, “We’ll keep bombing our little hearts out.” I see my neighbors struggling to pay for gas and groceries.

I don’t recognize my own country.  Men I cannot trust; men who shame their friends and welcome autocrats. How have we let them in?

To be old and to have the fundaments of my world stripped away disorients me. Where am I?

I plant anyway.

Protest anyway.

I am here on Shadow Mountain.