On Sunday the cleaning fairies shook me awake, pushed me out the door and tittered happily while I spent the better part of the day in a clearing out mode. This ritual satisfies me like few others.
I cropped dead heads off winter-weathered plants. I dug out layers of dried leaves caught between the early shoots of bushes, and I marveled at how well that layer of death had served for incubating delicate new growth, having been blankets for baby green tendrils beneath the cold. I pulled long tresses of blonde straw away from the prairie grasses, so the spring shoots could rise unencumbered. I admired the already budding lamb’s ear, velvety green, and the maroon shoots pushing themselves out of the rose bushes.
My daffodils rose up last week almost without my noticing, a sign that winter has officially lost its grip even if March and April snow storms will prove it not altogether impotent. The deep purple tulips are not far behind, their silky grey-green leaves aready waving enthusiastically out of the ground. In appreciation of these bulbs’ trustworthiness, I got down on my knees and yanked the carpet of fertile weeds out from around them, one by one. The earth being soft from a misty night before, I was even able to pull adolescent pig weed out all the way to its ten-inch roots, a most gratifying endeavor since, as Kris says, they seem to be held on the other end by Satan himself.
I hauled about five bags of detritus to the dumpster, gave the front lawn a long soak, and lounged with the cats in the sunshine of my little urban ‘backyard.’ The fragrance of the lavender and sage, which survived the winter intact, wafted through the air, and all things felt possible.
After awhile, I took a deep breath, walked into the house and swept and mopped every inch of the floors. Amazing how the dust bunnies reproduce even when sweeping (at least) is something I regularly attend to. I cleaned surfaces, relocated objects, threw stuff away, consolidated stacks to be filtered through more slowly, one bit at a time. Then I went over to T & A’s for another incredible food-high experience, which my mind was free to enjoy unburdened by a domestic ‘to do’ list.
All that remain to face are my offices at home and at work. I want to do it this week, but the dead leaves of ideas, tasks, obligations, reminders embedded in papers and notecards and stickies are so much more daunting to me that I have to push through resistance. But I’m going to do it, pulled by the payoff of how good having a fresh start for Spring Quarter will feel.
Finally, I’m gonna weed out any lingering beliefs that the work I need to do is too daunting, or that I am inadequate to the tasks ahead. I’m gonna keep plucking away at useless doubts and fears that sprout into my heart out of nowhere for no good reason. I want to haul all the detritus from my emotional past and pile the lessons on my patio for some organization who can use them to come pick up. Then I’m thinking I’ll hose down my psyche of bad habits–selfish inertia, detouring, fixating–and replant the seeds of calm focus, peaceful dedication, passionate engagement. All of which will leave me liberated to enjoy being in love in Springtime. Omm. Mmm. Ahhh.
To think we’ll be in full, regenerative bloom again soon. This is why I insist on living in a place with indisputable seasons.
