Warmth and sun, oh how I need it.  I have slid the cover of the moonroof back on my car.  My commute this morning should be glorious.  The window itself is closed but light will flood the car. 

Oh, how my pineal gland needs the stimulation. Homemade vitamin D coursing through my body.  I will almost be able to hear the birdsong off in the woods as I rumble down the interstate. I will take the exit through the park today to check out the gardens and trees of the rich folk.  I expect daffodils and redbud and pear.  Perhaps the dogwood will be starting. 

My irises have begun coming up. The ancient ones.  The ancestors of my great-grandmother’s.  I like to think she got hers from a family member.  I like to think about how long our lineage has been sharing iris rhizomes with one another.  Where they might have originally come from – Missouri, Tennessee, Michigan?  Those are only the places I know about.   

The day will start chill.  It will be a conundrum to figure out what to wear today.  Weather says It’s 60F now for an expected high of 75F though in town it will likely be warmer.   

Still, on the concrete, in the shadows of the buildings, there will be a chill.   

I always think it looks ridiculous to wear summer attire this early in the year even if the temps warrant it.  Oh, how my toes long for the freedom of air.  My arms and legs for the brilliant crystalline light of an Appalachian spring day. 

But I’m assuming much.  It may be warm, but I have no guarantee of sun.  For all I know, it will be cloudy and drizzly. In fact, yes, the weather says cloudy all day with thunderstorms tonight.   Sigh.  But they are so often wrong.  Let today be a wrong day.  They can keep some of the warmth if they will just give me the sun.   

I need that bright light. 

I am weary of this gray winter we’ve had.  The Eagles said it best, “the sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine.”  It’s been dreary rain for the most part.  Abnormally warm for winter, but dark and gloomy. 

I need to be in the yard.  I need to re-read The Secret Garden until it’s time.  Folklore says the appearance of dandelions signals when it’s warm enough to be barefoot outside.  Nowadays they call it earthing.  I grew up sans shoes…earthing is my natural state.   

I like being outside, toes curled in the grass, the soil, the sand, and even the mud.  Feeling the Mother through my feet.  My yoga instructor says there is a bundle of nerves terminating in the feet that begin at the pineal gland.  A conduit from mind to earth, so to speak. 

I need to bare my feet and let those nerves absorb the earth’s vibrations. 

Shall I wear sandals today?  Hmmm.  Probably not.  It will be cold in the shadows.  It will be gloomy and rainy.   

But soon, dear ones, soon. 

Update: It is not gloomy and rainy. Warm with partial sun. AND the dandelions are out. It’s time to barefooted outside. Yee-haw. My hillbilly diva self is quite happy.

They Had Had Too Much

The day the women had had enough will be remembered. 

I believe, after the dust settles and the men get over themselves, we will come to revere the anniversary of the Women’s Rebellion.  For years people have spouted that famous proverb  “When sleeping women wake, mountains move.”

We have awakened.  We are woke.   And we have had quite enough thank you very much.

Photo by Gayatri Malhotra on Unsplash

I was proud to be with the women of my town on what began as a sleepy Saturday, August afternoon.  Congress made their announcement, timed for the weekend so as to escape the news cycle.  During the dog days of summer when they thought we were sleeping.  It was my birthday and I thought,, “How dare they!”  HOW fucking DARE THEY.  And I don’t use that word.  But I used it a lot that Saturday. 

On my birthday.  To make such an announcement.  I was not surprised, but I was outraged.  I hadn’t considered that all of womanhood would be as incensed. 

My ire knew no bounds and my grandmother noted my Irish eyes were flashing.  Hers were as well.  She’d been outraged for a good 80 of her 92 years.  “We are going backwards,” she said.  How dare they.  My heartbeat rocked at a frenetic pace with the flashing of my eyes.  A strobe light of rage.

We felt the need to get out of the house and so we did.   Headed to town in my car, dusty from our dirt road.  I vowed to wash it.  I tend to clean when angered.  Rage cleaning, I called it.

But a funny thing happened on the way to town.  I began noticing cars full of old women and young women and girls.  All headed in the same direction.  Some of them began honking.  Rolling down their windows and waving their fists. 

We formed a line.  One by one, the cars fell into formation.  Horns blaring.  As we passed houses, women saw us, grabbed their keys, and joined us.  Word was spreading fast.  We reached the downtown area. The riverfront park where concerts and festivals were held.  Convenient parking.

Oh yeah, we parked, and then we marched.

I don’t remember who began the chant.

We are women!  We are mad!   We are women!  And won’t be had.

Now one would think that the men would have had the forethought to get out of the way.  But, oh no.  the majority of them lined the streets waving their fists and chanting Back to the Kitchen.  Back to the Bedroom.  Back to  Where You Belong.

Some men joined us.  Precious few.  But they were there.

My husband was not one of them.  He had disappeared.  But I knew.  He was somewhere chanting the loathsome words.

It was the death knell of our marriage.  It was the death knell of society as we knew it.

Gasoline had been poured on smoldering cinders and then the men had foolishly tossed in fresh wood.

Yes, we will revere this day.  Every year we will remember the Women’s Rebellion and the changes the revolt provoked.  Our daughters and granddaughters and their daughters will hold memorial marches – victorious.  And the little ones will be taught the history.  All of it, so it never happens again.

Redbud Winter

It was so terribly cold.  Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. Dark still.  The early morning sun yanked away.  The early spring taken too. Winter.  Full blown and the calendar reads March 14th.  Not too late for cold and snow, but there had been such hope.

I hope the daffodils survived.  Early and glorious this year.  A field of yellow outside my kitchen window.  I kept meaning to cut some for my office.  Today is the day.  If they are not frostbitten.

Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash

There were hard frost warnings last night.  Which winter does that make this?  It’s too early for Redbud winter though the dogwoods are already blooming. Or are those pear trees? White blossoms on the hillside. 

A soft winter.  A warm winter.  No snow to speak of.  Climate change is upsetting the rhythms of our life.  Wait until it really gets going.

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