“Is the spring coming?” he said. “What is it like?”
“It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth,” said Mary.

~Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

It’s rainy and cold today, but there are violets in the grass and the cherry tree is a bower of pink petals. And though the morning dawned grey behind the faceless clouds, a chorus of birds welcomed it as though it were the grandest miracle the world had ever known. Which, of course, it is.

I have been exultantly busy around here: writing every day, eeking out poems, reading a dozen books at once. (I usually travel around the house with a stack of them. I mean, you never know if you just might want Malcolm Guite’s sonnets when you’re heading out to warm your bones in a fickle, fleeting swath of early April sunshine. Or require Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit when you’re stirring something on the stove. Or realize just as you’ve eased your weary body into bed that the personal narrative of the Altamaha River you’ve been savoring is…upstairs. That will never do. When it comes to books, one must be prepared for all contingencies.)

I have also been hard at work on a project I dearly hope to share with you in the coming weeks, a long, heart’s-labor which, after many years, is finally on the breathless cusp of fulfillment. Details will be forthcoming.

In other news, life is going along gently here on our little farm. Every creature on the place, from impatient humans to contented hens, is nearly mad with longing for spring in earnest. In the days of sunshine we’ve had, our irrevocably spoiled Nubian does, Hermione and Perdita, have flung themselves across the pasture in the early mornings, wild with the joy of all that is to come, bouncing and cavorting in sideways jumps, rearing up on their back legs to play with each other. It makes my heart bound to see them. I seriously have to wonder if there is anything in creation more elegant than a trim little long-legged goat sailing over a green field gauzy with mist and dew, Nubian ears flying, feet scarcely touching earth. We had quite a terrible scare with our lovely Hermione last fall, a gravely dangerous brush with a rare condition that could very easily have taken her from us. When I see her now, I see a living witness to the kindness of God towards His creatures. Indeed, His tender mercies are over all His works…

Adhiraj and Panav, the India Blue peacocks, have feathered out in full glory as befits the season. It really staggers me to see how beautiful they are: how shockingly blue those long necks; how dazzling the gilt-hued feathers with their perfect golden eyes trembling at each tip. We have to be very careful these days to close them up in the henhouse at night, lest they take to the treetops to shriek out their lovelornity every hour on the hour. Let’s just say that if there were a peahen within any distance of us, she would have heard them by now. Nothing daunted, however, they will preen and dance and bow and vibrate their spangled tails like gigantic fans in the hand of a nervous coquette—to anyone who will admire them. (The hens seem to be their audience of choice, but those heartless biddies will strut right past, pecking along at the ground, without so much as an acknowledging glance. Hermione and Perdita appreciate the display, however. And the princes know they can count on an admirer in me—I am their abject slave.)

We’ve taken up a new regimen around here, a grain-free, sugar-free (and lots of other ‘frees’) lifestyle that is literally changing our lives. My mental recipe file has been turned upside-down, and while I’ve always tried to prepare nutritious meals, I’m finding that the energy that has come to me with doing what is best for us has incited a whole new love-affair with good food and healthy living. I am intoxicated on flavors and ingredients and new vegetables I’ve never tried. Such lovely timing, with all this gorgeous spring produce to tempt one at the farmer’s market! I have found tremendous encouragement and inspiration combing my friend Caitlin’s breathtaking website, Roost. (I made her Brown Butter Strawberry Cake for Easter and it was, in a word, sublime.) She makes such a celebration of all these careful, intentional choices, and underscores my own passion for beauty in the rituals of daily life. Beauty is not just for special occasions; it is most beautiful in the workaday hours of a common life, in the small rites and ceremonies and touches and pauses wherein we acknowledge that our little existence matters in the midst of a whirling cosmos. Making beauty can certainly avow to God that we love Him—but, perhaps even more, it shouts into our timid hearts that God loves us.

(Another Caitlin-borne gift that I just cannot help mentioning is her introduction to the Tata Harper line of skincare. I have been an old-school rosewater-and-glycerin kind of girl from my teenage years—I routinely raided my mother’s refrigerator and spice cabinet as a girl, preparing concoctions promising that “roseleaf complexion” Anne Shirley was always talking about. It wasn’t until I tried Tata’s products, however, that I found that serendipitous blend of natural and effective. They are all botanically based, with lots of gorgeous oils and emollients that smell like a flower garden on your face, and I am completely in love. I’ve realized that, despite all my efforts towards natural skin care, I have basically trained my skin to rely on the stripping and smothering process of the typical American beauty regime. It’s taken my complexion about a week to adjust to not having such violence done to it. But it’s thanking me. And the morning and evening routine has been so sweetly revamped: another little ritual to anticipate!)

Goodness! Such ramblings! A bird feathering her nest with anything at hand…

Anyway, with springtime waiting in the wings like a bride, I’ve known a growing sense of peace with the rhythm of my days. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I’m no longer compartmentalizing my life into the sacred and the secular (much as I rail against that, I still do it), so much as just trying to offer myself holistically to God, entirely, like a bouquet, or a chalice to be filled. Perhaps it’s just that, at thirty-eight, I’m finally coming to terms with how God wired me and the lifestyle within which I can best know and love Him. Because, at the end of the day, it’s not how much we have accomplished that matters but how well we have loved, isn’t it? I’m learning (with such tender steps!) to give myself more permission to simply be myself; in the spirit of Mary Oliver (another tome I carry about from room to room) to simply “love what I love” and offer it to God as a prayer or a praise or a wordless song of love.

A blessed Eastertide and blossoming spring to you all. May we all hear God’s voice awakening us with this dear, old reborn world of ours:

“Arise, my darling;
My beautiful one, come away with me!
Look! The winter has passed,
the winter rains are over and gone.
The pomegranates have appeared in the land,
the time for pruning and singing has come;
the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.
The fig tree has budded,
the vines have blossomed and give off their fragrance.
Arise, come away my darling;
my beautiful one, come away with me!”

~Song of Songs

(All that remained of the Brown Butter Cake after the Easter feast.)