Landscape of Early Spring

I usually don't mind winter in our relatively mild climate. Snow is rare, a spun-sugar delicacy that softens cliffs and mesas for a few hours or days. Clouds on the northern mountain portend frigid winds, but they're also short-lived. Even on the coldest days, spring never seems far away.

Seasons of personal dormancy can linger much
longer, like arctic Decembers that smother the light of day. At such times it's hard to do anything that leads to a sense of progression and change. Instead, I tell myself that if I can't turn life into a perpetually flawless performance it's better to withdraw with a shred of dignity. Then I subconsciously stifle dreams and positive emotions until my inner landscape resembles Narnia under the White Witch's spell.

A few months ago I realized how much I needed to find every-day metaphors to banish mental fog, to spark compassion and creativity, to validate the recurring possibility of change. Maybe that is why I suddenly wanted to to see the first hint of green wash through weathered cottonwoods. The rush of river and waterfalls beckoned me to Zion National Park.

During Spring break my husband and I hiked in the canyon with our two youngest sons. Although I didn't expect to spend any time in blissful meditation, this family outing was surprisingly congenial. No one lagged too far behind and our teenager made sporadic efforts to curb his impatience so that he could drive home. Between fragments of conversation, I studied my surroundings with new eyes.

The cottonwoods seemed lifeless at first glance. Ghosts of last year's leaves had drifted over the sand bars near the river and I realized that millions of tight new buds wouldn't open for at least a week.

My disappointment turned to wonder as we started up the trail to the Emerald Pools. Here was a chance to fill my senses with the essence of things: an arabesque of branches, a pine-tinged breeze and the touch of rough sandstone that hoarded winter cold. Squishing through mud under shimmering falls at the lower pool, I caught a half-hidden grin on our older son's face as he secretly enjoyed this childlike pleasure. And if there was an image that could capture our youngest son's laughter, it would look something like this:

Climbing to an amphitheater carved from ancient sand dunes, we were surrounded by echoes of cascading water, an ovation to spring. Our youngest son clambered over the boulders, excited to explore before he paused for a photo near a tattered shroud of snow. When my daughter and I returned a few weeks later, it would be nothing but a memory of winter's last hold.

I could only imagine the moment when this waterfall burst over the cliff, shattering silence along with the ice that might have glazed the upper pool. In reality I felt cleansed by the fluid music that graced canyon walls as it stripped my illusions and resistance to hope. I needed to feel small in this immensity of stone. It was one way to sense my importance to God.

In a matter of weeks, the falls would diminish to half-hidden springs that feed lush ferns and columbine near the Emerald Pools. My husband and I would walk under a canopy of leaves that greet summer with an oasis from blistering heat.

But I'll always remember Zion Canyon that cool March morning. Stark and beautiful, it turned metaphors into a promise as it became my landscape of spring.

Where do you go to gain perspective or peace?
How do you find renewal and meaning in the tasks of daily life?

Copyright by Nani Lii S. Furse

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Memorial Day Poem: Noon Hour

This past week I revised a couple of poems, resulting in a resurrection of some poignant memories. Although it wasn't something I consciously planned, posting "Noon Hour" seemed an appropriate way to acknowledge Memorial Day. As a college student, I wrote this poem after attending the funeral of a troubled friend who was close to my age when an accident took her life.

She was a single mother in her early twenties, trying to create a better life for herself and her son.

Phrases of our teenage conversations on my front lawn on summer nights have been drifting through my mind this past week. Maybe I was too simplistic or preachy or too absorbed in my own struggles. Maybe I could have done more to reach out, to find words that might have eased the frustration she must have felt when confronted with small-town expectations and cliques.

One thing is certain: I'll always be haunted by the image of my friend dressed in denim shorts as she bounced a ball back and forth behind her curly-haired, pinafored peers who were singing a sentimental ditty for some Young Women program. She paid dearly for her refusal to fit into well-intentioned molds.

I dedicated the poem to my friend's youngest brother.



Noon Hour
for Edward

South wind clipped the prayer word-thin;
I heard only syllables
but you, child, watched from the other side
of dusty carnations
blown over your sister's casket.

Wind twisted my full skirt
and melted transparent scarves
over older women's bouffant hair.

I couldn't hear you circle those dark angles
scissored at our feet
until our hands crushed together
and your head pressed my thigh.

Then scanty grass crept under your Sunday shoes,
not waiting for amens
or petals to lower out of the wind.

Copyright 2011 Nani Lii S. Furse