spring

something from ten years ago:

We made it through the winter! It was long and dark with deep cold and snow, but finally spring is here. The Mississippi is overflowing its banks in the city right now. Yesterday, stuck on a bridge in traffic we could see way down the river, our view unobstructed by either snow or forest, since the trees don’t have leaves yet.

Gray spooky water swirled swiftly through the park and over the walkways and picnic tables along the riverbanks and the current looked like pleats in the middle where the water flowed fastest. But soon the trees will fill in and the river will retreat and seem lazy and soothing instead of dangerous.

Today it’s bright out with a strong warm wind that reminds me of my grandparents’ farm high on a Wisconsin hilltop. They have lived there since my mother was a baby and everything about the place, from the aqua melmac cereal bowls and sudsy bathwater to the bad reception on the TV, feels like home to me.

While I was picking up dirty socks and newspapers and toys this morning, the sound of the wind gusts kept drawing an image into my mind of the upstairs of their house: white railing over the stairway, soft carpeting, and long windows with sheer, billowing curtains. It must be the smell of springtime.

Wednesday afternoon we went to our son’s “robot show.” He’s studying engineering and all the robots of the 170 students were on display, each with its creator in attendance. These weren’t robots like spacemen, but rather robotic devices. Each student was given a handful of components and then had to write the program, design the electronics and create “something interesting.”

Not sure what we’d find, we headed for the ballroom of the Radisson. We rounded the corner, and I was stunned. It was uncomfortably hot and stuffy in the room, yet the sight was just breathtaking. All these young people, and a few old ones, had made the most delightful contraptions!

We found our own son, his cheeks red and hair gone all curly from the heat, and checked out his robotic dump truck. (We’d been watching that throughout the whole process.) Then we took in the spectacular creations of his classmates—a carousel with tiny gears and rods and horses rolling up and down, a monkey that played the piano, cars of every sort, a doll that putted a golf ball, a pop can crusher, things that flew, a bubble blowing machine.

I was in awe that an assignment could go in 170 completely different and perfectly wonderful directions! A guy whose contraption mixed beverages made glasses of lemonade for our little kids, and while we waited, I looked out at all the intelligent, animated faces of the students, and the room felt absolutely shimmering bright, bursting with potential.

After dinner that evening, I took Maria to vision therapy. Part of our genetic code around here includes dyslexia, and Maria's included. I know it’s supposed to be a disability, but I don’t believe that. I’ve seen too much. Dyslexic people have ways of seeing that are nothing but an asset.

And still, vision therapy helps. It helps the kids access the part of their brain that processes print. Maria’s vision is getting better—it’s right on the verge of blossoming.

We drove through the neighborhood near the eye clinic where the branches of the maples on each side of the road touch, making the street feel like a dappled tunnel in summertime, and yesterday I noticed the first shadow of light green up high in the tree tops.

It feels all around me this week! Everywhere I look, the whole world feels stretched full with potential. As we blew along in the evening sunshine under the outstretched branches of the maples, the radio was playing and Maria was singing along with Nelly Furtado: “…I don’t know where my soul is. I don’t know where my home is…”

It’s a beautiful song, but we know exactly where both are.

Best wishes for a wonderful summer, love, Val