|Look who's back in town!|
There's something in the air. Probably euphoria. Maybe bliss. It's hard to find the right word.
We've been visiting plant nurseries, potting flowers, marveling at the lilies popping up in the flowerbed. We ate our lunch on the deck yesterday and the birds—robins, house sparrows, grackles, red-winged blackbirds—are squabbling over nesting sites in the back yard. The mourning doves intone their haunting calls in the morning and evening and every once in a while, a flock of sandhill cranes flies by high overhead, their crrrrrrr call to the tiny people far below a greeting as they pass on their long journey from wintering grounds in Texas and Mexico to the Canadian Arctic. This flock is late; must have stopped over in North Dakota.
The world has spring fever and doesn't know which delight to pursue first . . . everything seems possible.
Life is not only everything; it's the only thing.
It astounds me that so much of the world is toying with the abysmal when the sublime is so near, so inviting, so enticing. But I'm determined not to go there this morning when the leaves and blossoms are bursting out all over and the sky is such a deep azure that every man-made blue looks like grey.
If I were the devil out to do mischief, I'd blind people to the glory of spring and watch them sink into the doldrums of longing and discontent.
We started our “garden” today. Sheltered by an enormous spruce tree and facing the southern sun, we placed six large pots on tiles; here we'll put out the seedling tomatoes next week. We hung a huge begonia basket up near the front door and the succulents are potted and hardening-off outside after a winter on the kitchen window sill. Our herb children have graduated from their basement grow-light to the deck; the big, bad wolf from which they’ll need protection is late frost, of course. They still lack the sense to come in for night, even when called.
Our house is full this weekend. People from Edmonton, Saskatoon, Winnipeg passing through for weddings, mostly, or to visit Grandpa and Grandma. There's something rewarding in living in an inn; people are inordinately grateful to have a “home” and a clean, comfortable bed after a day of travel or celebrating; they chat with other guests as if they were old friends. How remarkable. We give them a key, tell them to make themselves at home . . . and they do. A young couple in Rosthern for a wedding intimated solemnly that they'd never been to a bed and breakfast before. B&B virgins. I'm betting they'll never look for a motel again.
There's definitely something new in the air.
It could be elation.
Or something else. Hmmm.