(Note:  All photos taken in early April.)

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This week's focus: looking up!

“This is my ‘depressed stance.’  When you’re depressed, it makes a lot of difference how you stand.  The worst thing you can do is straighten up and hold your head high because then you’ll start to feel better.  If you’re going to get any joy out of being depressed, you’ve got to stand like this.”

~Charlie Brown

Lately, I’ve been looking up again — both literally and metaphorically.  Maybe the physical act of lifting one’s face to the sun, basking in its sweet golden warmth over and over again, inspires the mood to lift in concert.  In any case, I could not resist the urge to look at the millions of new baby leaves, each one unfurling its bright fabric rapidly, as eager soak up the spring rays as me.

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“In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day.  No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them.”  ~Aldo Leopold

Mr. Leopold obviously did not live in South Carolina.  I feel that way right now, actually, and it’s only barely April.  I want to see and smell and touch everything all at once, and yet I also have the desire to lie lazily under a tree contemplating the beauty of a few unfolding leaflets at length, with the only interruptions a friendly grasshopper, a busy brown thrasher, and some curious kitties come to purr on my chest.  Which I would probably be doing today, since it’s finally cooled off a bit… except that the pollen is excessive, enough to discomfit me and I’m not even a serious seasonal allergy sufferer.  (Sending all serious sufferers in the South today a generous dose of sympathy.)  Instead, I am spending this day with one eye trained on the promise of the clouds, longing for a soft rain to wash away the sulfurous dust that coats every surface.

It’s physically impossible to keep up with all of these amazing — yet totally ordinary — anniversaries and births, of course.  Just take a moment with me to step back from that glorious, glowing, low-hanging bud and baby leaves of the tulip tree, shown above, to a slightly wider view of a few more flowers on that same tree.

And just a few of its branches.

And then glance directly up at the sky — as seen through spring tulip tree.

This is only one tree among the hundreds I encountered this week.  I realize I do spend more time among the trees than the average Josephine, living as I do surrounded by forests, and making regular trips to the Botanical Gardens and the lake and the local parks.  But I wouldn’t trade with anyone right now.  It feels like Nature is just showing off in this season of bounty and beauty, and sometimes I fancy that individual vignettes of her show are just for me, in that moment, made to communicate directly to my heart that all is well, that trust in the process of life is justified, that hope is as natural as the bright green glow of the newborn season.

One anniversary that is especially poignant and must be marked for me every year is the blooming of the dogwoods.  I’ve seen some that are already in full bloom, but the trees in natural woodland shade in my backyard are not quite ready.  Almost there.

Last autumn, I wrote a post, entitled “a rare pleasure,” all about my feelings for this iconic tree of the Southern Appalachian forests, now under threat of extinction, and what its loss may mean for the life of this bioregion, and how the awareness of its possible fate inspires me to live now.  In my opinion, it’s one of my better posts.  You are welcome to see for yourself.

p.s. As I finish this post it has begun to rain, a soft gentle rain, and it is so beautiful.

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“I am sure it is a great mistake always to know enough to go in when it rains.  One may keep snug and dry by such knowledge, but one misses a world of loveliness.”  ~Adeline Knapp

Soft spring rains today, one of the joys of the season.  These drops are so gentle the birds continue to sing right through them, and fly carefully between them, sometimes without getting their feathers wet.

The radishes, both last year’s overwintered plants and this year’s newly sown seeds, are responding with enthusiasm.  Yesterday there were three seedlings, so tiny F. claimed he could not see them when I pointed;  this morning whole rows are visible, new life being born in neat, green lines.

The cats are both asleep beside me as I work, and the sound of their deep breathing mingles beautifully with pitter-patter and birdsong just beyond the window panes.  This gentle, grey light makes the colors glow.

I keep thinking if I look closely enough, I’ll be able to see the lettuces grow.

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“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”  ~Margaret Atwood

I do!

Apologies for the almost abstract photo taken of the few remaining cabbage transplants as they sat waiting in their white ice-cube tray (repurposed after it got a crack) in the last rays of the afternoon sun.

Why is the photo so uninspiring, you might wonder.

It was a day of glorious blue skies, 62 degrees at its peak, and we’re only going down to 32 degrees tonight, the merest touch of freezing, like allowing oneself to sink to the bottom of the pool only in order to push back up, rising in a shower of glittering bubbles, breaking the surface into a glory of sunlight.  Besides the cabbages, there were onion sets, broccoli, and lettuce seedlings to get in, and a million seeds finally germinating (mustard, peas, radishes, carrots) seemingly overnight.

When I finally thought to grab a picture, my hands had dirt on them, so I had to hold the camera gingerly, and I didn’t exactly take my time with the shots.  The above was the best I could manage.  I’m afraid my attention was elsewhere — and I don’t regret a moment of it.

I think I’ll make this my photo for week nine of the Focus 2010 project.  With the coming of this delightful weather, I can’t seem to settle to anything much except the garden.  I even fantasize about it while working (a dangerous habit).  So this shot actually perfectly illustrates my focus right now.

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