I should write something deep about poetry. Or fire. Or the sacred forge of life tempering us all. Or spring.
But I really don’t want to. We’ve had unusually warm, lovely spring weather here in Georgia and I just want to play on a tire swing. Or ride my bike. Or have a picnic.
One of those picnics where you eat tomato sandwiches, ridged potato chips, and store-bought cookies. Where you crack open a watermelon and eat it with the juice running down your arms but you don’t care because you brought wet wipes for just that reason.
One of those picnics where you lay back in the grass and watch big fluffy clouds roll by. Or sit on the shore and watch folks fish on the lake. Or sit on the beach and watch the shrimping boats chug along.
It’s one of those days where you want to sit in the yard with a tall cold drink and just sit quietly with friends watching the sun set. Where people get to telling stories late at night and someone laughs so hard sweet tea spurts out their nose, which makes someone fall out of their chair laughing. Where you realize you’re all sober, yet you’ve been up past 3 am without any idea of the time.
This morning what I really want is an apple, sweet and crisp. Or a cucumber, cold, sliced-up and dipped into jalapeno ranch dressing. I want to drive with all the windows open, the scent of freshly mown grass on the breeze and the radio cranked up to songs of my youth.
And maybe that’s about Imbolc too. The longing for summer, for warm weather, simple pleasures and good friends. Looking forward to the promise the year holds.