Spring Giddy

So there I was on Tuesday sitting upstairs in my pink-like-a-hug Dream Room, healing from Monday's tragedy. 

There on the oval rug I sat with my seltzer water and watched yet another episode of Road to Avonlea, a show which whisks me to a country where, ok, I'll say it--I sometimes live part-time. (Only if you've watched Road to Avonlea can you understand what I mean.) Avonlea is rather like a summer home (or a winter one) where I can move to when things like the weather or people or Life, in general, bug me.

Anyway, so there I was in Avonlea, er, I mean my Dream Room, when the new pastor said these words about his wife (who had debilitating back pain) to Janet King:

"She lives with almost constant pain, but never lets on how greatly she suffers. It's Viola's way. She clings to the philosophy that the Lord gave us Life and we praise Him by the fullness we live it."

Wow. Time stopped and I missed the next words spoken because, suddenly, Life felt good again. I thought, "How true! We do praise God by the fullness with which we live Life." It was like that 'apples of gold in pitchers of silver' thing of which the Bible speaks--perfect words delivered at the perfect time, bringing healing with them.

And then yesterday, Thursday, felt like magic.

Clear blue skies and sunshine every moment and 60 degrees! Tom and I ate lunch on the gleaming front porch, then I read books out there and took a walk. Even bought dark chocolate to munch upon while I passed all the yards waking up from Winter.

And then I puttered in my own back yard, trimming and lifting away the dead twigs from the daffodils and felt like I was in a dream, as though the fourteen other Spring times in this yard swirled inside my head, bringing along every sweet memory, every reason I've loved living here. 

And I must have gone a little delirious, because I actually felt grateful for this long, dark winter. Only when you escape out of such endless, grey, frigid weeks can a simple Spring-like day in your own tiny backyard feel like a miracle, better than even an afternoon in France or Italy or upon the Riviera.

No, really.


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