Nothing Stands Outside the Circle

When a hard spring rain drenches me, I worry about the flowers, born without clothing to protect them from the cold snaps, the ferocious winds, the downpours. I worry about the two ducks that have taken up residence in the water lily pools at the Botanic Garden, one emerald green and black and glistening, the other all mottled browns. Are they okay? Are they warm enough? Where do they sleep?

Today I notice one of them floating on the pool’s surface, its neck turned and twisted so he can tuck his head into his feathered body. They sleep in the body of themselves. They float, their egg-shaped heads tucked into feathered darkness, downy and warm. On this day, the gentlest ripple in the long rectangular pool rocks him.

“Oh he’s sleeping,” I say with delight to my companion, like sleep is some rare discovery this brown-feathered duck happened to make.

What has amazed me about the common thread of all of our survivals? Food, shelter, company – as basic as instinct – a worry because perhaps something is missing for me, something of a birthright for the living. Is it the struggle that concerns me? Living is sometimes an effort, we must want to stay. Or is it the particulars of what seems hard? How do we feed ourselves? How do we make a home? How do we find our tribe, our reflections, the end of our isolation?

Spring. What do the ducks, and the flowers have to teach me – a scattering of broken stems after the windstorm but most blooms still standing, reaching upward for their one glorious breath of life. Some stems break, all flowers wither, either their broken bodies or their reaching blooms eventually fade. Is that a problem? Is any of it a problem at all?

My body creaks in the morning. I’m sometimes slower into the day. Grey hairs litter my mane. We live, change, change, and change some more. And cycles of spring and frost and deep freeze meet us exactly where we stand, holy and whole.

Spring. I welcome the ducks and the broken heart they show me. It is mine. I care for their well-being. It is easy to care for them. I care for signs of life and signs of death. This heart plays its notes of exhilaration and sorrow. Is there anything to do about any of it? Nothing stands outside the circle.

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