Under Nature's Spell

It's that delicious time of year—a time of waiting.

I'm waiting for all of the flowers in my flower beds to bloom and all of the leaves on my trees to finish unfurling their lush greenness.

I'm waiting for my boys to be out of school for the summer, so that they and I can wake up whenever we please instead of when the alarm clock insists, so that they'll be around most of the day and I can nuzzle and kiss their soft cheeks whenever I want to, and so that I can hear their laughter through the windows as they play in the yard.

I'm waiting for those long sunlit evenings so that there's time after dinner for my husband to lie in the backyard hammock with me under the shading leaves of our grand old maple.

I'm waiting for my daughter's graduation from her social work master's degree program on May 18.

I'm waiting for my first grandchild to be born. She, like her mother's graduation ceremony, is due on May 18. This is the hardest thing to wait for because nature will not be told what to do and when.

I'm waiting for our camping vacations—two this year, for the first time ever. We'll head to Rhode Island for a week in July, and then to Vermont for a week in August. I already feel all summery and thus not too motivated to work hard.

While I wait, I am pacified by the luxury of having all the windows in the house open to admit cool breezes, liquid birdsong, and the delicious scent of hyacinths. The forsythia shock my eyes and then warm my heart with their wild, outrageous yellow. My ferns unfurl like drowsy nappers stretching and yawning; my golden dandelions offer themselves up for my morning tea. My dwarf Japanese laceleaf maple pulses with a deep red as brilliant as a ruby's. Once again, nature has cast its languid spell.



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