Epilogue:
One can’t force seasons to materialize, but in the meantime, one can lean on poetry, and dare to don pink hair, if only to bring Spring closer in spirit if not in reality. Imagine, with a feisty me, and the genius of Miss Emily Dickinson, that perhaps, this March will dissolve quickly into April. Soon.
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period –
When March is scarcely here
After a blue sky day, when the sun drops behind the ridge and our mini-fire-pit reaches a heated pitch, we glimpse heaven on earth as snowy yard goes from blue to pink to purple. We stand witness and declare, weekends are the best! Afternoons outdoors, chatting about nothing, sitting silent for a few fleeting moments. Living beyond the work week is all we’re really after, right? Fire and sky, feet on the earth, with time on our side, now that’s a Saturday worth remembering.
As much as mistakes are heralded and lauded in each commencement speech from Harvard to Stanford, they seldom feel that way while you are free-falling out of control. Like when you lose your home. Or job. Or mother. Or marriage. Or health. The sensation of spinning is never a welcome sensation. Instead, we flail about trying to latch on to anything to prevent the inevitable broken bones we receive on impact; desperate to cling to every hope, false or otherwise, that eases us down.
But the truth is, as you lay for some time in the dust, you realize, you must rise again. You simply must. And eventually we do. We don our finest and face the disaster head on. Probably not at first, but if we survive the catastrophe, or for some, multiple catastrophes, we simply must stand. Personally, I am buoyed by Vince Lambardi’s words, “It does not matter how many times you get knocked down, but how many times you get up.” I guess you could say this has been my motto, and one that keeps me looking up and out, smiling, as I get my feet under me once again.
Nine Cent Girl 