Spring has arrived with its signature flourish. I enjoy the recognition. It began years ago with delight

The snow's crust hardened then softened, then became lace through which the roadside stream could be seen, happily (did my happiness make that water happy?) spilling and tumbling downhill past our home. A small stick in a small hand makes the hole wider, tests the depth and speed of water, light infiltrates, the sparkle falls into and back out of the little river. Raise your eyes: follow the stream through its tunnel as it gathers contributions and finally bursts through the ice and crystallizing snow, spreads into the street. Follow your sight, stand and look downstream, then follow it… you must, you must… uninsulated boots, waterproof except for the pinhole in the right toe, through which the cold drips in, spring, spring. Walk downhill where the river leads. Where will it lead? Beyond your small horizon, certainly. The trees arch overhead. They are elms, you later learn. Somewhere sun has found leaf loam and heated it until its fertile fragrance is all around you, then whispered away with a breeze. The trickle becomes a stream and flows into the field where the skating rink has dissolved into slush; stream slows, soaks into the marsh, into reeds, into trees, away toward the lake. Where has curiosity carried you?

and now the body has opened again after so much cold, so many times, it is a reunion of old friends. At least from my side – maybe New Life doesn't take much notice of my relief, my smile at seeing her come round. Its that kind of relationship: I take the warmth I can, and do my part to accompany her while I can.

Yesterday I was playing a local brand of frisbee with my daughter Bela. Since our accuracy was not always of highest caliber, and the wind conspired to fly our disk closer or further from our outstretched hands, we (equally conspiratorial) devised a more interesting manner of fetching. Who wants to walk grumbling or apologizing in such fine weather, when practice is just to be Doing, without expecting anything to be Done? Here are the rules, in case you wish to play:

1 – if the frisbee falls behind you out of reach, you must do backward somersaults until you come within arms' length

2 – if the frisbee falls in front of you out of reach, you can choose cartwheels (if it is far away and you
need to make some mileage) or somersaults, either "standard" or "diving"

3 – if the frisbee fall to your left or right, you might log-roll, or shoulder-roll.

As you might imagine, once we began this rather entertaining (for the cartwheeler) or amusing practice (for the cartwheel observer), our throwing accuracy went rapidly downhill, until the recipient was not left wondering whether he might actually catch the frisbee, but which direction and how far she might have to tumble to reach it.

Somewhere along the way the frisbee arrived at the top of the small rise, just near the deck. Having realized that backward somersaults uphill are rather a lot of work, it was immediately discovered that forward somersaults downhill are not only no work at all, but tend to become a sort of perpetual motion that leaves the tumbler looking and feeling not unlike a cartoon armadillo, become a ball, and rolled so many times over and over at ever increasing speed that the eventual decomposition — of ball-ness, or perhaps the reclaiming of extremeties of person-ness — was breathless and dramatic.

Seventy degrees and soft grass merit delight, the kind that removes the knots of winter from the mind, the impossibilities from the joints, and grants that love, this love, of old friends in reacquaintance… whether you are in the company of a daughter (greater likelihood of somersaults)… or a lover and those beautifully tangled gymnastics… or no one at all but your own lifting spirit, light of rebirth, cio da terra as the Brazilian song goes, light and life, light and life.

Someday I will try to translate all the nuance and love of living that is in Chico Buarque de Holanda's song of the earth.

O Cio da Terra

Debulhar o trigo
Recolher cada bago do trigo
Forjar no trigo o milagre do pão
E se fartar de pão

Decepar a cana
Recolher a garapa da cana
Roubar da cana a doçura do mel
Se lambuzar de mel

Afagar a terra
Conhecer os desejos da terra
Cio da terra, a propícia estação
E fecundar o chão  

Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010