three windows, rewilding
Spring comes even when we’re not ready.
One.
My favorite spring poems are the sad ones. Like Jenny Qi’s “First Spring, 2011” which starts: “Everyone I love is dead or dying. / The sun shines garishly bright.”
Or Ada Limón’s “Instructions On Not Giving Up”: “Patient, plodding, a green skin / growing over whatever winter did to us, a return / to the strange idea of continuous living despite / the mess of us, the hurt, the empty.”
These two poems paint the blooming of spring as something manic, obscene, out of place. I love these poems because they surprise. They tap into a sense of paradox and irony that feels more and more true. Life is just a bundle of contradictions.
Spring is my favorite season, I think, because it comes even when we’re not ready. Here on the coast, it's well underway. The azaleas are are coming out of the closet. My neighbor’s magnolia tree, a burst of pink. I planted some cabbage and broccoli out in the beds a week ago, and then yesterday it hailed. When the sun came out later that day, I checked on the crops. Some carried puncture wounds, but they all stood tall, proud.
Two.
My cat Blue was born with vision, but his previous caregiver found out, after about a year, he had lost his ability to see. As a result, he explores his surroundings with his whiskers, through sound, through smell. These other senses are heightened, making him hate loud sounds and sudden, rapid movements. He prefer quiet, calm, predictable environments.
To accommodate Blue, I've made it a point to not move furniture around, to keep the floors relatively tidy, and to get him a low litter box that he can easily climb in and out of. I also narrate a lot of life to him: I'm opening the blinds (he hates the sound of the blinds). I'm about to get out of bed to get water (my bed is up against a wall and he is usually on the edge of it). Friends are coming over later today, but don't worry, you know them. I don't know if he can understand me but I'd like to think he does.
In many ways, I too walk through the world sensitive to it—to bright lights, to unpredictability, to loud sounds, to collective grief and anxiety. I have always known that I am sensitive, but grew up in an environment where “pushing through” was the norm.
Taking care of Blue has allowed me to shift my relationship to my own sensitivities and overwhelm. I catch myself in moments of self-cruelty and try to slow down. I see Blue sleeping soundly, without a care to the world, and I remember that I can give that to myself, as well.
Three.
All the pieces that are left for me to do are blue. I've been working on this puzzle for two months now, and it has become a slow meditation of looking at the outline of pieces to find their unique features—a sloped edge to the right, a rounded corner, a narrow rectangular shape, an overly large peg. I use this noticing as the starting point to my search. Sometimes, this slow process frustrates me. I want quick, immediate satisfaction. But today, I don’t mind it so much. Between work meetings, I set a timer for 15 minutes. I get two puzzle pieces in. It is a good day.
What I've loved:
Third Eye Blind's Tiny Desk Concert. Yes, I cried when I watched. Their music has so much nostalgia for me.
Listening to DJ sets on YouTube while I do work. The first one I ever listened to was this Smooth Japanese Grooves set that features aunties in the background. I also love this rare 70s Funk & Soul set and this Cozy House mix.
Creating mood boards on Milanote.
Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova. A book about grief with such a strange and wild plot, and scenes that make me laugh out loud.
Magnolia trees.
