During an afternoon walk a few days back I nearly ran into a couple who were seducing me with their saunter along the path beyond my backyard fence. It was "hot" around those bodies, hot enough to excite my senses, reminding me that I had not noticed this in many a Spring, if ever. I imagined muscles and breasts stretched with the skin of youth. I saw gentle shoulder bumps, heard whispering through shy smiles and watched the easy kisses. I wanted to enter their blushing love, steal whatever they had for myself, because in that moment I knew that what I hoped they were feeling I had experienced only in my imagination.
I missed a lot growing up when love was confusing and hiding my sexual self became a survival skill. Imagine, if you will, the outcome for a Silver Birch sapling forbidden to experience its' sap, strangling on its own juices. Or the frustration of a Yellow-Billed Loon whose beak turns yellow only during mating season, leaching to white millimeter by unfulfilled millimeter-- unnoticed by a female. Or the life of a young woman swimming in hormones and confusion-- burying her sexual trauma so deeply that it took decades to untangle the denial and permit the pain to rise to the surface for fresh air and a shower.
Spring carries on the way Spring always does-- following what appears to be the "winter stall." My winter may have looked stalled this year, but underground the soil has been replaced and the roots seperated and cut . My Master Gardener took special care to remove the "mother root" knowing that that was the one causing me so much trouble. I feared what remained might not sustain, but as the days lengthen and the sun warms I notice the new shoots are swallowing the nutrients and growing the leaves and blossoms, up top. The sap is moving within a body late for this kind of blooming but one grateful for the surge of this particular Spring.