The field of spring, like the field of gravity or the electromagnetic field, can seem elusive and difficult to understand, but spring's quanta, its minuscule particles smaller even than atoms, sometimes become apparent at dawn, sometimes through the mist of dew or the first sun on the new leaves of the undergrowth. Sometimes the field of spring becomes audible in the rhythmic chorus of the birds.
That field romances the particles of the spring, blurring their edges, creating an ether that may nurture mood and meaning. It is a tidal force that swells and recedes, its apparent forward motion deceptive because it brings back the past with each pace toward summer.
In the fog of spring, I cannot or choose not to see outside its temporal limits. I am blinded by an enclosing energy that takes hold like a passion or lust. Its haze obscures or channels my vision and good sense.
Sometimes memories rise and fall in the shape of emotions, and nostalgia filters their source and content, allowing them in and out of the porous self like the elusive residue of dreams, plot and actors forgotten.
The field of spring flows among those and so many other slippery and untouchable quanta, veiling and transforming and referring each marker to somewhere else, to all that might have been and still might be.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I’ll be back again next week with notes for the first week of Early Summer. In the meantime, stand or sit or lie real still. Wait for the field of spring.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will’s Almanack. I’ll be back again next week with notes for the fourth week of Late Spring. In the meantime, if you look closely, you may see that the pieces of time, like flowers or green grass, turn into the place you live in.
