While most of the country is sailing full steam ahead into spring, we are still waiting here in Maine. There is the occasional snowdrop flower, and I even saw a couple of crocuses. These were along warm foundations of houses where the bulbs get a little extra help in spring. Up north in The County, they are still experiencing snowfalls, and I’m not certain we’re completely done with snow here on the midcoast. This time last year we were still buried in the white stuff.
|The king is dead.|
But there is this fuzzy photo, which to the untrained eye might seem abysmally boring. That can be forgiven. Would you believe me if I told you that the sight of this picture causes great excitement to the trained eye? In areas where the winters are long and cold and dark, as they are in Maine, the eye becomes accustomed to looking for the tiniest sign of renewal. A flower is not a sign; it is a message on a bullhorn. It cannot be missed. But it’s the tiny signs, those which are almost invisible, that are the most revered in the beginning because they are the beginning.
Can you see the slight swelling of the buds on the branches? Are you not thrilled? Does this not cause a tremor of excitement for you? If it doesn’t, it should. Look again. Look closely. There is a swelling on the reddened tips. There is a palpable desire exuding from the tree, a searing need to explode. There is a pulsating presence about to pour forth from this tree, and all around it, there are magical waves of energy in the air. They are there if you stop to look. If you can’t see them yet, surely you can feel them.
We have passed through to the other side. We made it. The immortal maiden has clawed her way back to the Earth and is in search of a mortal man once again to take the crown for a season. The king is dead. Long live the king.