Tulip looked confused when I said good morning to her as I began my morning walk. Just a few weeks ago as spring dawned, Tulip and her siblings stuck their heads out of the fertile soil and looked at the blue skies, and yellow sun and decided to have a better look. Within a few days, they stretched their backs and reached into the sky with smiling pink faces.  They approvingly looked at each other, brothers and sisters, when a light rain quenched their thirst.

“Oh, I love the spring,” they sang delightfully in unison while stretching their stocks.

But today, not so much. They frowned asking, “what is going on?”  They shrunk into themselves and wrapped their petals around their shoulders shaking from the cold. “It’s freezing, and yesterday it rained cold and harsh before the rain turned to frozen white pellets battering us.” They said with a shiver.” I nodded.

“After an hour the frozen rain stopped, the skies cleared, and the sun came out to warm us. We smiled, almost laughed. We basked in the sun’s warmth for over an hour. Then the rain and hard freezing pellets came again and took our breath away.” They were not happy. “Then the sun came again for several hours until a cold rain replaced it. It stayed cold beyond the rising of the moon.”

They were right, “I’m wearing a coat rather than a sweatshirt to keep warm. It’s cold this morning.” I said.

“Is spring over? Isn’t summer due next? Are the seasons going backward?” They asked shrinking from the chill.

“No, this is spring in Gig Harbor. It will get warm, and summer will follow. Chill out, warm balmy weather is on its way.” I spoke.

“Yeah right, we’ll chill out for sure, and we don’t appreciate your choice of words,” Tulip said. I smiled, turned, and walked away to say good morning to the other flowers figuring out the contradiction of spring in Gig Harbor. I thought to myself but didn’t say to Tulip, I love this weather.

This morning on my walk I noticed Elroy and Gilbert were swimming in the pond occasionally taking a short flight before landing back in the pond. They were looking for Shirley and Eloise, two of the most beautiful hen Mallards in the flock. “They’re usually here by now, it’s mid-April my favorite time of the year. Mating season is underway, but not a single hen in sight.” Elroy said.

“Yeh, that’s unusual, “Gilbert added. “Where did Tom and Zeke go?”

“They saw a few of those white round golfs taking short sprints. Went to look. Each year they’re curious and don’t learn anything about them from one season to the next. They’re always snooping when we first get back from the Mississippi wetlands.”  Elroy added. “They can’t help themselves. They gotta go over there and gawk.”

“They can’t figure out why golfs fly such short distances, usually fast and furious, then lay in the grass until they get scooped up by that cage and taken away. They don’t have wings, don’t breathe, have no legs, beak, or feathers, and can’t swim.” Elroy said. “They’re weird birds.”

“I saw one dive smack into the pond, went right to the bottom, and never came up. I dove down to see where he went, seemed to bury himself in the mud at the bottom in the deepest murk. Still there, just like the day he went in, now covered with more mud.” Gilbert added.

“Yeah, I saw it there too, at first, I thought it was mollusk, tried to eat it for lunch, hard, tasteless. Yuk.” Elroy said. “Tom and Zeke should stay clear of that big grassy area. It’s dangerous.  Remember when a golf flying top speed collided into Seymour’s head.  Killed Seymore instantly. Dead on the spot. “Golfs got no sense of direction, in flight, like they’re blind; like that one that flew straight to the bottom of the pond. “Elroy said.

“Hey, there’s Eloise and Shirley. I’m going to say high. Eloise and I hooked up last season, had six ducklings. Lucky me.” Gilbert said. “She said she liked my green head, has an almost blue tinge, it’s so green, she said.”  

My morning walk was uneventful except for the ducks making their way home to Canterwood Gig Harbor from their flight to the south for the winter. Each year the flock of couple dozen Mallards return to Canterwood golf course to rest, eat, nurture, frolic, mate, bring new life to the pond, and of course, watch the golfs.

Oscar Wilde's manuscript Hearts Yearning broke world records on 5/9/2013 when it sold for $104,770. I have always loved his contributions to the literary universe. He is a delight to read and think about. His humor and insight always penetrating, thoughtful and clever and lives on generation after generation. However his take on yearning focuses on only the heart and, of course, we all know by now yearning is more, so much more than merely heart matters. Its is not limited to the heart, but involves the entire body. Many of my thoughts on Yearning were previously published in Tahoma West, 2019 volume 23.The following is an excerpt from my article. 

Yearning is inside of me, everywhere inside of me, in the dendrites, axons, soma of my nerve cells, and in the hypothalamus storing the memories of past yearnings. It is in the capillaries throughout my blood stream. It beats inside my heart, and muscles its way into my bones, ligaments, soft tissue, and protein filaments of actin and myosin producing the contractions of my body movements. It is in my organs from bladder to brain. It effects every aspect of my life. I am in the constant grip of yearning. It is everywhere. I yearn to be creative like the actin and myosin in me.

Perhaps Oscar Wilde influenced Madeline Peyroux's interpretation of Dance Me To The End Of Love and perhaps insinuated the lyric "dance me to the children who are asking to be born". Perhaps he implied a hope for future generations that Jennifer Leitham, the Celloist, sings in the song, Stick It In Your Ear; specifically the line "some future generation will make us all proud." Each parent and grandparent yearns for their young ones to succeed.

When I watch my youngest granddaughter play the cello, I yearn for her success and continued pleasure making music. I yearn with her, to play first chair, rather than second chair, or third chair, in the orchestra. I watch the chair move toward her, it too wants her bottom sitting in its wooden structure, its golden form bending to the rhythm of her sway, its ladderback shape holding her firmly while the cello sits between her knees. As the bow yearns to be pulled across the four strings, its slender neck aches to be caressed, wanting her musical voice to sing tenderly, clearly, decisively with precision. The chair's four sturdy legs stand firmly holding each note to their full capacity. The notes on the written page of Mozart's Variation, with its innocence and sophistication, call her to standout; urging, play me; softly, boldly, tenderly,, as I am written. Play me with passion, play me with power, play me with precision, play me with refinement. Each note yearns for full expression. Perhaps, I too can become an artist like my granddaughter.

 My walks through Canterwood are not so different than Oscar Wilde’s walks through Magdalen College from 1874 through 1878.  He wrote of the murmurs of spring, the pine trees whispering of love, the delicate odor of morning breeze, nets of dew, and birds singing. His poem is truly about yearning and not so different than the glory of fall in Canterwood.

  I walk outside. The leaves on the maple trees each have been yearning throughout the entire summer to change colors; as if saying, change me to orange, change me to yellow, change me to golden, or change me to red. Each leaf wants to grow into autumn; to be pulled into its natural destiny. Longing to paint the landscape with its indigenous pigments. The Douglas Firs stand proud and tall, longing to reach higher in the sky for more sun light while its roots dig deeper in the soil, stretching its toes hungry for solid footing, wishing to be recognized into ten centuries of tomorrows. Urging warblers, squirrels, nuthatches, grouse, and chipmunks to nest and feed in its abundance. I yearn to write a paragraph as beautiful as a tree.

Some more on yearning; reading Billy Collins again

 I was appreciating Billy Collins, this morning- his poem Aimless Love in the book by the same name. He whimsically writes about falling in love with a wren, a mouse, a seamstress, a bowl of broth, and even a bar of soap with its lavender and stone scent, love without recompense or suspicion, pleasant easy loves without lust or rancor. I love his imagery, elegance, and simplicity.

It reminds me of my youth, the love of the hula-hoop, slinky, pet rock, and first roller skates. Fleeting: no yearning, no longing penetrating the consciousness, no aching for constancy that Oscar Wilde pines in Yearning Hearts. Is love without yearning truly love? Or is it just a passing fancy, a moment of delight?  There’s no endurance with the slinky, hula-hoop, bowl of soup, or bar of soap. Not like real love as I wrote in the essay on Yearning a few years back without the elegance or simplicity of Collins

Lovers walk hand in hand at the market, desiring lips and arms to merge into the body of the other. Oblivious to the outside world, their aching appetites only to be satiated by the other. Their hunger, their thirst, their cravings, their desires are expressed in their gazing eyes, through their attentive faces, shoulders leaning into, necks craning intimately toward the other. Ageless longing, comfortable, serene, familiar, protective, hoping for a century together.

They joke, if we eat our spinach, it could happen. Yes, our salmon too. The other adds. They yearn for conversations that confirm the rhapsody or their unbridled passion, and wish for endless time merged with, lost in the eyes, the lungs, the throat, the body of the other. They perceive through the eyes of the other, breathe through their lungs, inhale their scents, taste the sweet mint of the other chewing gum, they see only the perfection of the other. Longing for a world that loves as deeply, as profoundly, as innocently as they do. When others see them, they too long for what the lovers have.  

So, this morning I was reminded by the New York Times that walking was good for my health. Gretchen Reynolds, a health guru, suggested in her piece that I walk with awe. Walking with awe is not like walking with my wife, Juliette, or my brother Fred. Walking with awe is to walk with innocent eyes, a childlike attitude, a perspective as though you've never walked here before. It is to walk into any situation as though it were novel and look for things that have been there for decades, but perhaps you didn't notice.

Walking with awe opens your eyes to notice the difference between a squirrel and a chipmunk. A chipmunk has stripes and is much smaller than a squirrel which has no stripes. The ground squirrel has body stripes but no head stripes. They both have short fur, small rounded ears, scurry up and down trees in Gig Harbor, and make the Pacific North West their home. As I look closer, I see mostly squirrels, grey with longer tails running up and down the fir, maple, cedar, alder, hemlock, spruce, and pine. Chipmunks eat mainly seeds, nuts, and berries while squirrels also eat plants like corn and wheat. Both occasionally eat insects. Chipmunks gather food for the winter and hibernate for the winter. Squirrels don't, they eat every few days during winter.

I'm told by Gretchen that I will live longer and happier if wake up bright and bushy-tailed  in the morning and walk with awe early in the day, or any part of the day for that matter. Although in another article, she says companionship and friends also add to longevity. I think Oscar Wilde walked more with awe than with a companion. I think Billy Collins walked with both. 

I like looking closely at nature, the universe, and people like they're novel. Inside the novel, I notice anew how smart my brother is and how beautiful and imaginative my wife is. Neither have stripes or bushy tails, but they both scurry through their lives with the awe of childhood creating new perspectives.

So this morning I'm back at it reading the poetry of Billy Collins, again from his writings in Aimless Love. 

To My Favorite 17-Year Old High School Girl brings up images of my youngest granddaughter, Piper. Comparisons to famous people at that age is perhaps a grandparent's affliction so is hopelessly loving her. 

Then the poem Love captures a different part of her, perhaps a glimpse of how a young man may experience her as she moves through her world being herself. 

I love seeing her and my wife laugh.

Perhaps Billy Collins said it best in his poem Lanyard. She gave life, milk from her breasts, nursed when sick, taught walking, and swimming, prepared a thousand meals and gave clothing, education, a beating heart, breathing body, strong bones, and teeth. In return, she received a lanyard weaved at camp to make it all even.

I watch my wife of nearly four decades negotiate Mother’s Day. The roses, tulips, orchids, lilies, boxes of chocolate, and words scratched inside a hallmark card, bring a smile. An artist’s rearrangement of the flowers, sharing of the bonbons, and wistful recollections of births and milestones of her daughters and son that remembered her. Unspoken feelings of pain of the son who made no attempt to weave a lanyard.

She embraces the flowers, warm words, and mindfulness with her arms, hands, and mind of eight decades, remembering each birth like yesterday. She recalls grammar school, knee scrapes, calico kittens and German shepherd puppies, soccer and baseball, high school years; from freshmen to graduation, the girlfriends, boyfriends, colleges, five weddings, and the birth of each grandchild. She recalls her children's friends from four to forty. Wistfully, she yearns for more youth and energy to give to them.

Her skin is thinner, insensitivity penetrates, stings deeper, leaves bruises. Her heart is bigger, and mindfulness, niceties, and affection

from others resonates and lingers for weeks. 

The champion of mothers- loves thanklessly, is unquestionably dedicated, and forgives with only a hint of kindness. She laughs with the past and smiles towards the future. The flowers, boxes of confectionary, and attentive words revitalize her, quickens her heartbeat, lifts her head, puts a spring in her step, and makes it all even.

Two Canadian geese joined the Mallard family at the pond this morning. The two hens, Emma and Chloe, kept their distance from the young Mallard chicks. Gilbert and Eloise had gotten together again, which is not so common among Mallards, but much to Gilroy's liking, and six recently born chicks followed their mother through the grass just a few feet from the pond. Chloe and Emma wondered where all the Canadian ganders were. Unlike the Mallards, Canadian geese mate for life with very low divorce rates. They were eager for their husbands to arrive to create some more goslings of their own. They looked on with amusement at the new chicks.

Chloe and Emma segregated themselves from the Mallards knowing the rules of nature and respecting the rights of their close  Anatidae cousins. They often share ponds and waterways with them and the swans on their travels through North America. "I've never seen any swans here at this pond," Emma said to Chloe. "Me neither," Chloe responded. "They are so beautiful, I've always been envious", Emma added. "They would add to the beauty of this already charming place."

Spring was in full expression with beautiful flowers and blooming trees, the warmth of the sun, and the cheerful celebration of life." I love this time of year," Chloe said. "Me too, Emma answered.

Joe tells me he’s always glad when it’s over. When the advertisements for Toyota Trucks, weed blowers, the placement of flowers at the cemeteries, and the display of poppy flowers and small American flags are done. He doesn’t like the barbeques, the speeches, or the “thank you for your service.” comments.

“The memories always start with Brave Falcon and the four guys that died with him that day. It plays in my head again and again.” Joe continues, “Beady said Brave Falcon went to the middle of the pack to show the new guys how to avoid tripping the wire that could detonate the bouncing betty. After demonstrating, he turned to join the front of the patrol.  A few seconds later, Boom! The explosion killed Brave Falcon, and the four others immediately.

It was my job to protect the new guys until they got the lay of the land, and I wasn’t even there. I was in the rear, on an easy street running a danger-free patrol to protect CB equipment. I knew they wouldn’t be okay without me when I medivacked out… and they weren’t.”

Joe says the memories keep coming. “Then it’s on to being medivacked; walking point, the noises, shooting, hiding in narrow spaces explosions, hordes of VC, smells of munitions, my arm puffed up the size of a grapefruit, the medic, the Darvon, the morphine, the arm brace, and resuming the patrol.

Shopping for groceries, signs of Memorial Day sales, the carts, the narrow aisles, the hordes of people, long lines, loud noises, and the broken wheel on the cart is like a *&%^ # war zone and “Brave Falcon would still be alive if I had been there.”

The roasted marshmallows, hamburgers, hot dogs, flags, and speeches are meant to remember those who have fallen. But mostly, it just hurts.