I'm eating the summer's blackberries with my breakfast and watching snow bunnies slipping down through a gray sky. Snow bunnies are like flurries, but fatter and more playful on the wind. White sprays outline evergreens and denuded maple and oak trees, and plays hide and seek with the grass.
Changing seasons invigorate me. Each carries haunting melodies of other times and places, harkening me into memories' halls. Summer's sunny heat blasts me with fun because we were out of school, but fall, winter and spring shoot me into vignettes of walking to and from bus stops and climbing from the cold air into warm school buses where dour childish faces watch, waiting for the ride to end. Who knows what awaits them on the other end? Surely it can't be fun for them for look how sad and tired so many look in my rear view mirror.
The younger children were happier and noisier. By high school, more were ladened with worries, already sinking into some surrender about where their life was taking them, settling into grim survival modes. They did not seem to be looking forward to life and adventure. Encountering them on Facebook, most never left the state. They claim contentment, and perhaps they are. Not everyone needs to wander.
I was born a wanderer. I wandered as soon as I learned to walk, before I learned to talk. The city police picked me up wandering. I was young and couldn't talk but they figured I could not have wandered far so they drove me around. I spotted my Uncle walking and made a noise. They knew my Uncle and also knew he didn't have children but they stopped, and he recognized me.
I've wandered since, slipping through annual and life seasons, listening to the songs, and making up my own. I've tried going back to other places but the music there doesn't match what's in my heart and mind. I go on, finding and following new melodies.
Today, winter's stringed instruments are plucking the first soft notes in our valley. Woodwinds will begin. Bells will chime, with harps and pianos playing as we pass through the holidays. Storms will bring out the brass and percussions. Before I know it, I'll be turning and looking out the window, and a spring rain's soft music will start. I'll listen and watch and think, I remember being in school, when spring began each year. It's a time of renewal, but for the school child wandering my halls of thought, it's marking the coming end of another school year, a time to look ahead toward summer.
That is me, listening to the music, gazing ahead, looking behind.
Causes Michael Seidel Supports
Kiva, Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, Propublica.org, Doctors Without Borders, GreaterGood.com