Growing up in Pittsburgh, there were four distinct and incredible seasons,
but winter was a bit much.
Even back then I loathed the cold:
I could always find refreshment when I was hot, but I could never get warm when I was cold; this is the reason I am outfitted in Uggs and Emus all winter long, even here in California (the Bay Area is quite damp and chilly in the winter)
A western Pennsylvania spring is marked by the first flower (the crocus) followed by a few more weeks of weak snowfall, fat and wet
and soon the bulk of the blooming begins.
It is a beautiful thing to behold, and my mother made sure we beheld it, dammit!
On walks or car rides she would admonish my sister and I if we stopped oohing and ahhhing over the foliage - "Pay attention!," she demanded.
It became a catchphrase for the change of seasons in our family, and it sticks with me even to this day.
I confess, lately I've been so wrapped up in pressing plants and rolling them through my amazing mill that I've not been taking as many walks as I should, opting to drive to the yoga studio or stay late in my aqua room to delve deeper into hammering a small bowl for a ring or necklace - it's not good, this singular focus, except that it is oh so good:
it is the struggle of an artist who has been lucky enough to have a plethora of ideas in a short amount of time, which makes one feel both blessed and beleaguered.
Today while watering my front porch plants, I noticed the rose bushes in the front yard - my goodness, the massiveness of the blooms!
I spent a few minutes picking a few, paying close attention to their unique, single-note frangrances... all was silent, save for the fuzzy cotton sound of being in the moment.
Before heading indoors, I picked a bloom to roll through the mill,
more meaningful for the company these plants had just provided and the specialness of
a spring morning on earth.