The changing of seasons, a return of birdsong, a promise of blooms to come.
I’m about… ankle-deep in a new writing project. Having let my Emily Dickinson graphic novel biography fall dormant (as a reticent volcano), I’m starting work on an Emily Dickinson picture book. My book is about a bird. Of course it is. It’s short, I have the first draft of my manuscript, and I have already done most of the research I need for content — the next step is to think about form, style, and how I want to approach this medium. So I’m developing a schedule to plot these things out.
My job as a receptionist at Cooley Dickinson VNA & Hospice closes at the end of March, but I’m stepping straight from that role into a part time weekend role. I’m pleased as punch to continue working in an environment that has been so good for me.
I will soon find my weekdays opening up in concurrence with the spring flowers. This will give me more time to write, and time to be at home. Today’s snowstorm offered a preview of that free time, so I piled up some books and resolved to make a reading list and writing schedule. And quickly found myself distracted, revisiting my months-long search for a volunteer opportunity.
My search for ways to serve my community goes slowly as I think about where I want to commit my time and energy — I don’t just want to go for one day, to be a pair of disappearing hands. I want to involve myself in my community and see parts of it I wouldn’t otherwise see.
Volunteering doesn’t just enrich the organization one serves, it’s a mutual benefit that enriches those who serve. So when a one of my research books mentioned The Eric Carle Museum, it dawned on me that this just might be the thing I’m looking for — and now I have the time to commit to it.
As I put together my application, I thought about how rarely I have the joy of interacting with children. I’ve spent lots of time in cities and in social bubbles that miss the curious chatter, the mischief, the presence of young people. I’ve had a few experiences teaching young people, and the memories of those times still brighten my mood.
I wrote an anecdote for my application, it’s something like an essay on why I want to volunteer at The Carle:
Last November I found myself assembling a mobile of paper butterflies colored by children whom I had never met. Some of the cutout silhouettes had the likenesses of butterflies drawn onto them, and others showed hearts, rainbows, and loving notes to friends & family members.
The butterflies came from a project facilitated by Shelly Lenn, the coordinator for our bereavement programs for children & teens at the VNA & Hospice office. For Children’s Grief Awareness Week, Shelly had gone to elementary classrooms throughout the Pioneer Valley to meet with children, to read & discuss picture books about death & grief, and to gather colored butterflies for the mobile I would later assemble. We hung the mobile at the front desk for families to see when they came to our bereavement groups, and it continues to brighten the days of our staff when they visit the office.
When I think about the kind of service I want to give to our community, I think about the importance of the community itself to that service. My coworkers regularly compliment me on the butterfly mobile, and I regularly remind them that I only colored one of those butterflies — that the sweetness and memories which populate the paper swarm came from people throughout our valley. I want to spend more time with those people: to learn with them, to read with them, to make art with them in person.
As winter heaves its last cold breaths, migratory birds are gradually returning to New England. Animals that hid away, silent and sleeping, now peek out from their holes. They chatter and sing, and again I wake up to mourning doves. The plans I’ve laid out and the things I’ve learned through the past several years now bud with promise. As the valley awakens for spring, I can feel myself awaken to a new season in my life.
