Spring on a high ridge in a sea of ridges where rain falls and water flows East or West in the cool moistness of the Southern Appalachian Mountains.  Flowering trees, each species unique in shape and color dot the landscape.  Seed, fruit, leaf to follow, each showing Nature’s capricious creativity.  I remember my first view , awestruck and thrilled.

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A Spring of unparalleled beauty with softness of color and form and sweet smell of blossom.  Pastel hue richly applied, new leaf, perfect, unblemished.

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A view heightened by contrast.  Approaching from the West having left Spring of the high desert behind, a Spring of dry wind pushing sage hard against the barbed wire, dust swirling as a trickle of precious water makes it’s way through the Acequia to Sammy Martinez’s field greening the alfalfa before flowing down to the river where the Cottonwoods grow.  Seeds with cottony covering floating in the air, moving whimsically with the currents like a child’s bubbles over the long green grass where the families picnic. The high mountains yet white in snow cap.

 Here the mountains are covered in rose, peach, lilac, lime, lavender grey, warm yellow and rust.   Soft and soothing, worn by time, planted by a gentle hand.

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Water, an integral part of this Spring.  Flowing in riotous perfusion over moss covered stone, white wave standing, stream bed with wildflower blankets, soft and inviting.

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Since that first view, I have spent many a Spring in these mountains and foothills, walking the trails, riding the curved roads, relishing the sights, sounds, and smells of this season.

Other Springs come to mind:  the northern Spring of first melt when the thick sheet of ice and snow yields to the warm sun forming crevices and rivulets coursing randomly across the playground carrying stick boats launched by children shedding heavy coat and boot in the unfamiliar comfort.  The dank, musty, welcome odor of an earth uncovered.  A warmth not yet trusted.

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Wildflowers, the treasure of Spring.  We seek them for beauty and for the wildness they represent, a wildness we crave, allowing Spring to bring us back.

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A lovely Spring rain descending softly on the land, female rain as it is called in the high desert, nourishing, sustaining life, falling gently on moss and wood, wetting yesterday’s sun dazed Trillium and fern, settling  the dust on the gravel road leading into Harmon Den, joining the waters tumbling over Cold Springs Creek falls, flowing by the  wild trout resting in the seam by the boulder, a shadow of green-brown,  a subtle flash of red.  The Embodiment of wildness, pulling us in.

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I recall a Spring of black umbrellas that pop in the air everywhere as people exit Metro and commence walking, umbrellas to huddle under as the Spring rain falls from a dark sky, umbrellas to stop the errant wind blowing helter skelter feeling strong against the fabric, umbrellas to shelter under when the time comes to grieve.  Tragedy, personal and societal, visited upon a city now left behind, seeking solace in a city yet spared.  Walking the pebble paths   of the garden in the 6th, hearing the murmur of a language not my own from children setting sail toy boats in the pond.  Innocence.  Out to the 16th on sidewalks lined with trees new with flower and leaf, winding sidewalks grey with rain.  The round room, a bench in the center beckoning;  a longer, reflective pause surrounded by the wonder of summer garden, bridge, and water lily.  Peace.

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Like the rain at the divide, I too moved West or East, but an Appalachian Spring drew me back and kept me;  loving as I do the flower and petal, leaf and seed, and clear cool water of the mountain creek.

 I still think of Spring of the desert Southwest, almost a contradiction in terms one might say, how could anything so dry experience Spring, yet it is a beauty to behold.  Where once was bleached dry sand now is velvet green with wildflower in abundance and cactus in flower extending away to the horizon.  This is living sand, replete with flora and fauna, just waiting for a raindrop to burst forth in life.

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Capricious creativity, or so it seems, nature takes so many forms, colors, and modes of renewing life.  There is a joyous exuberance here, a carefree openness, a wondrous experiment.

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Spring of the Western Coastal Range where the tawny brown of summer-fall turns green as tall grass covers the lovely rolling hills and gusty wind whips the field in waves of celebration and billowing white cumulus move overhead in the bluest sky while we walk joyfully this youthful time.  Hills that will feel the weight of a living fog as it moves silently, ominously , from the water over the contour of the land as if reclaiming what it once owned.  This Spring too is remembered.

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Spring on a high ridge in a sea of ridges.  Joining in memory all the Springs in a celebration of life in this natural world.

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