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The Call of the Crocus
Myriah Krista Walker
It is afternoon. All day Iíve harnessed my desire for a walk along the river. Heavy rains have intermittently turned the ground from milk to bittersweet chocolate, and it turned back to the former again as soft winds dry the Earth between storms. Its been too wet and stormy to be out.
But now Iím restless. I want to be outside. A big thundercloud above the cabin threatens. Already I see it spilling itself ½ mile to the south. There is the option of my rain poncho and umbrella, but it has a metal tip, and I am not interested in playing lightning rod today.
From my perch at the kitchen window, I see a chipmunk sitting atop a large boulder. Still as its rock, it sniffs the tension in the air. Feeling the anticipation as well I sigh, and turn my gaze back to the south and down river. The wind is but a breeze, and I long to be moving.
Suddenly the chipmunk skirts across the ground and playfully jumps on top of a pile of wood. It dashes about, never far from cover lest the cloud lets loose its cargo. I rise and walk across the room to look out the east window and the yard overlooking the river. An unexpected splash of yellow color pops out from the yard, and I find myself donning coat and boots without a second thought of the thundercloud above. The crocuses have blossomed and I must go see them up close!
Outside I dash down the grassy slope to where the crocuses are. Not one, but seventeen are in bloom, and all yellow. Just a week ago there was no sign of them, and now today they are in full bloom. They are nestled in green tufts of grass beside the sagebrush. I pull dried cheat grass away from them so nothing will hide their bloom.
Suddenly the sun peeks out from the cloud as though I had simultaneously pulled the cloud away along with the weed. The sun! How glorious! The thundercloud is still there, full and ripe, but the sun has made itself a spot to shine through. Just for a moment.
I continue to pull weeds in the yard, now inspired. The more I pull, the more green is revealed. I keep pulling, removing all that is blonde and gray and dried. It seems fitting to be pulling by hand instead of using a rake. Its like blessing the Earth, and feeling Her Joy in response.
Here a splash of white as a quartz rock is revealed, there a blue rock, over here the soft pinks of the prickly pear flowers in bloom. As I keep pulling, unexpected Light radiates from the ground now and then. I donít know its source, but it makes me smile. I feel Iím in Divine Harmony. I will work until I tire or it rains. This is too much fun.
As I weed I am writing, composing stories, feeling the Joy of nature. I suppose when I write I am weeding, pulling out what doesnít reveal the stories essence and color. I smell the fresh Earth as wet dirt clings to roots Iíve just dislodged. I discover a great place to sit and meditate that I hadnít known before. The yard becomes brand new.
I keep working. It is like magic, watching the yard turn from blonde gray to green. The thundercloud has slowly moved itself over the river and eastward, but from the west a long wall of clouds pushes forth. Eventually I tire, and as soon as I enter the cabin the wind picks up. A half hour later it begins to rain. The crocus drink deeply in their green beds, smugly satisfied I heard their siren song.
During the night the temperature drops, and the rain transforms into snow. By morning the crocus are blanketed by a foot of snow. The chipmunk and I are hibernating until its warm enough to go out and play again. Its just another day in paradise.