A Tide of Swallows

There is a particular moment in this area of the world when the wind turns, shifting from the narrow, sharp sting of snow-chilled mountain air to the softer, wider, warmer breezes skirting the meadows and filtering through the forests – and even as I walk now among cherry trees exploding in pink, I watch and I wait for that delicate change. An early stop to work gave me the opportunity to take tea by the window and process through the mundane and profound events that have piled up on me.

Everywhere there is bird sign: flickers hammering into telephone poles, puffed-up robins chittering their varied opinions, tits and sparrows chirping as they scatter in clouds of feathers, crows patrolling the curbsides, starlings wolf-whistling from the gutters, chickadees hopping from branch to branch, and soon the finches and later the swallows and lastly the thrushes in the hollows. It is now two weeks before England and all the things that can wait and all the things that can’t wait are lining up for inspection.

The spring rain fell in a broad, warm blanket, as sudden bursts of sunshine beckoned faint, faded rainbows. We browsed the crystals isles, ate french fries, and walked arm in arm through the grocery store buying chocolate before taking out usual positions on the sofa for a night of television.

Today was what I would consider the first real spring day – perfect blue skies, cherry blossoms on the wind, and sunshine edging its way slowly into the shadows where winter is hiding. We took a long walk through upper Queen Anne popping into storefronts, ate doughnuts, had dinner with friends, and received happy news about a pregnancy that reminded me how crucial the gift of life and joy are at times of struggle.

I poked my nose out a few times this afternoon; the air smelled of cherry tree blossom, the echo of rain, and the freshness of grass and fertile soil. The day was spent dreaming of England, of Canada, and of a little sacred spot on a lake nearby where we will usher in the autumn.

As I sat at my desk, I noticed for the first time the warmth of the sun on my face and turned to see huge fluffy white clouds floating in a sea of blue and the budding branches glistening. It is now 10 days until we leave for England where I hope to gain some space to reflect on what has passed and plan for what might come.

The crow pulled and pulled at the thin pad that lay under our bed of soil until his beak was full of threads; He could barely turn his comically mustached head towards his nesting partner, who landed unsteadily on the fence post, her beak overflowing with bright, wet, green mosses. The night was spent, as many nights are spent now, toiling away at todo lists for all the projects that are forthcoming.

The blossoms begin to fall, covering the sidewalk in soft white petals, and that sleek cat, young and eager, pauses from his greeting to roll belly-up in the lush, deep grass. I did a new reading for myself last evening – the Quan Yin deck image of elders gathered around a small, curious girl is so absolutely calming.

My heart is full of the spreading boughs of cotton candy cherry trees above my head and of the tiny, black-headed junco with his beak full of twigs watching me from the fencepost as I returned home. Things slow a bit now as we finish our financial planning tasks and begin to mark off the last remaining items on our England list.

Crows are calling everywhere today, tucking their wings close to their shimmering bodies and launching themselves head-first from the high places towards the exposed heads of all those who they decide are a threat to their nests, which in the end means everyone. Pizza ordered in and a beer at the end of a long week plus a marathon of television adds up to domestic bliss.

The scent of blossoming trees crawls under the crack in the front door, drowsy blooms push through hidden places between the stones and everywhere there is life emerging from the underneath and the tucked-away. We left our bodies for a time while listening to Rachmaninoff’s 2nd Symphony on a perfect spring evening.

As my neighbors overturned and seeded the beds with future flowers, the scent of fresh soil brought me back to my mother’s tomato garden. England and my extended family is now a few days away.

The starling stood with an insect in his beak as large as his head; he puffed out his chest, and stared at me as if to say, look at the bounty in this world. I dreamed of long journeys and red silk and spicelands, and meandering roads that stretch between the mountains to the farthest horizon.

The wind turned today, rolling warm and sweet from the meadowlands, causing me to shed my winter coat as the last shadows of winter vanished in the sunshine. It’s all about England now as the reality sinks in – a confusing mix of emotions about a trip that is on one hand familiar and routine, and on the other a massive journey far to the East.

I cannot be sure, but I thought I heard the rambling warble of a finch singing happily in a spring shower. As we get ready to leave, my mind turns to another countryside with green low hills and ancient stone.

My day was spent planning and packing and peeking out the window when there was a moment between exhales, and so I did not notice the passage of time in my relationship with nature; only in my memories of England did I visit the hedgerows and the old, tangled trees in the springtime. We leave tomorrow after a whirlwind of flurry.

After a slow journey across the empty, lake-dotted expanse of northern Canada through a clear evening sky, the ice fields came into view and led us to a beautiful fiery sunset over Greenland – a quick, moonlit night that ended with a rainbow gradient dawn over Scotland and the misty valleys below. Hello, England.

On the motorway south to Brighton, English trees were in full leaf and the magnolias dripped with huge blossoms, lush green rolling hills were dotted with dozing fat sheep and hyperactive new lambs, and from every corner the fertile spring overflowed. We had a wonderful day walking through the North Lanes in search of treasure, reacquainting ourselves with the city, and eating and talking until we could no longer stay awake and gave in to jet lag.

There is no bird like the English blackbird – the master of composition and improvisation whose warbled symphonies, so quintessentially British, echo through the narrow streets and weave their magic around the terraced houses. I spent the day wandering Brighton alone and felt connected to myself in a way I haven’t felt in ages.

I caught the sun on my face, illuminating wildflowers, coaxing the new grass into seed, spreading low in the sky across the fields of the South Downs. We walked through Lewes today, from Thomas Paine’s White Hart Inn to the Lewes Castle keep to Anne of Cleave’s Tudor house, across the river Ouse and into the evening.