March 20 Saturday 2010 Vernal Equinox
Bare-breasted on the backbench, out of site of any eyes save for those with fur or feathers;I took in the first spring sun by whipping off my shirt and garden boots and reclining on the old wooden bench far in the back bowl. I listened to the high-pitched nuthatches sing as they darted for black nyer seeds and waited, eyes closed, for a visit from my Maine Coon cat Auggie, who can’t resist me at rest.
And soon he found me, leaped on my naked belly and thought nothing less of me for being out of shape, doughy, pale and to the outer edges of middle age. He loves me for my hands which find burrs and scratch ears better than the spiky trees or rocks he uses when I am not at hand. He purred his weak old cat’s rumble and settled on my gut to listen to whatever I heard.
I feel the safety of the world surround me when I am back in the woodsy untamed back acres. I am content to have no pension or retirement plan, no health care and yet many cares. Back here, I see myself as healthy, strong and connected to the trees with their badly split limbs and the birds who need me, although less now that it is warmer. I love how the cats walk and follow me and take off when they want. They are not at my beck and call. They show love and independence in equal measure and I want to emulate that balance.
This morning as my husband and I sat in bed with coffee enjoying the sounds of spring in the country I recited my February poem all snow and city sounds to my husband. I did it after I berated him for never asking me about the poems, the blog, or other writng. So he asked me. He is very feline in his ability to give affection and devotion and yet remain aloof and ever self contained. I see myself, especially now after restarting therapy, I see my endless and negative self regard. Is the dinner not OK? Am I doing enough, can I ever do enough if I in fact feel so worthless? What can I give of value to if I am so riven with holes that the love, the praise, the affection of others torrents out like an over punctured colander.
But today, as I run in to type thoughts and capture sounds and feelings, the fields of black birds scream in the distance. I’d recognize their screech as the harbinger of spring. I want to allow myself some time to welcome a rebirth; it is never too late to let green shoots of hope and belief poke through cold ground.