Last night I went for a long walk on Easter Eve. I came home at dusk and sat by the pond in the near dark to watch the dogwood tree. It has just this year fulfilled its promise. Every branch but one holds the shape of embrace so characteristic of cornus, and at the end of each twig is the spring-shaped tear which doubles as a single hand, reaching towards the sky. If I were more Japanese I might fret over the wrong branch that sprouts with no awareness of proper social skills or courtesy or the long tradition of arboreal beauty straight up in the midst of graceful arcs. I might know what to do with it and stand for an hour with my honed shears and change this tree’s life.
But the beauty of sitting in the dark is that there is no work to do. At dusk I have no pruning shears, no hoe and no spade. All I can do is sit helpless surrounded by a garden being its untamed self. In one ear the gargoyle spouts a water melody and in the other traffic starts and stops and purrs the comfort and annoyance of civilization. Between the two a flock of some kind of bird drifts overhead with the sounds of ripples beseeching. I cannot locate these birds by continent or season; their mysterious v-shaped song makes a wake between pond and highway and leaves me in a place of perfect peace.
This morning light dazzles every wall. I will set the table with ceremonial bowls and offer bright colors to the day.