Spring’s Leaves | Mark Lindsay

Vicky’s Birches have new leaves. Just how did that happen? A moment ago it was winter and now spring’s burst wide open. I suppose, meteorologically, it’s actually still winter. But my senses don’t lie. No, here in our little town, the seasons have changed. Spring is here.

Those birches do this to me every year. All on their own, while I’m buried in self-importance, they burst to life. Their chartreuse buds sound out a call to awareness. They startle me, prod me, and remind me to get out of my head and to start living. Nature’s so effortless in its creation. Why does my own creativity seem so hard?

Though the sun shimmers on the tender leaves of our weeping birches, my brain's been in a pea-soup fog. Somewhere between the first of the year and now, things got murky. That’s why Vicky’s birches are so important. They’re my fog horn. They lead me from the rocks and guide me home.