March madness, various dates, 2006-2009

I finished up a round of painting in the back house today. Filled up the third to last day of my vacation in a very handy and dandy kind of way. It's always nice to lay down paint. I love the way it looks, the way that it tells you the moment you walk into the room that some form of "newness" is going on around there.

Newness, indeed. That house is stripped down to a few basic pieces of furniture that I haven't had the heart to move. I think of moving and know that that is my least favorite thing to do right now but I did it very well this last month and know that I could do it again if I had to. But what's funny is trying to understand why I have such a hard time moving forward, or moving along, or moving to the next square whenever I think of you. It's not as if time has stood still or that we are still stuggling for answers. Those answers were spelled out all so long ago. It's just..well, it's just..something that speaks to the humanities major in me. That talks to me from deep in my chest, heck, all the way up from my gonads. That voice that I hear is not something supernatural or psychotic, it's just the voice of the ages, the one that speaks for the heart, the one that fuels poets and mystics and writers of great literature.

That voice is the one that says hold on. That says stand fast. That says honor that conviction, those utterances, that heartbeat. For whatever it's worth.

Four years. Four seasons of late winter, first bloom of spring. Four times around the sun and still you manage to color my world. I see the first blooms on the cherry trees, the breaking of the soil and the eruption of color that the crocuses and daffodils bring and they immediately make me think of you, of rejoicing, of the satisfaction that no matter what anyone said I am still here, working and living and breathing. And thinking of you.

Life marches on, as it should in March. Family has come and gone. Spring breaks have either been worth the bother or have broken the spirit. I have seen a parent leave this earth, have seen my children grow before my eyes, have seen you peek at a homemade book I made for you out of the trunk of your car. I have witnessed us grieve at the thought of new schedules, have kissed you in the rolls of rugs at IKEA, have sat through many, many moments where I wondered if I would ever see you again and then there you go, car whizzing down the road, break lights lit because you managed to see out your rear view mirror.

I know that to march is to move unless you are marching in place. I have moved forward in so many other ways but I have to wonder if what I see in myself is stubborness or some sort of desire to just wait. I don't care too much for waiting, that much I know. I know that when it comes to buses I walk to the next stop, look over my shoulder, check my watch and know that there isn't any percentage in standing around. Might as well walk a bit more.

That's how I felt today when I finished up that first part of my paint job. I can't sit in my house and wonder if I'll see you pass on the street, but I can get my house ready for a new adventure, somewhat like when you were here helping me choose a paint color for the living room. I know that you are out there somewhere in the world, blossoming like those cherry trees, finding new adventures, so I am on to new adventures, too. I am happy right now filling my world with people and meaningful work. I am loving life just knowing that spring is here again and in the not too distant future my car will be on the road once more and so my adventures with my children will start anew.

I have thought about you daily, and in the thinking know that something akin to great literature is happening here. I don't know what it is but it colors my world, somewhat like those buds that rise from the earth these days. You did and still do color my world, Professora. That in itself is a form of marking time, of moving forward, of marching along to the beat of a very decent and wonderous drummer.

I hear that beat and know that it's my heart. It beats for me, for life and for you.

Love, your WHMB