Muriel Wolf, a fiction writer, serves as spiritual companion at the Center for Solace (formerly Brattleboro Area Hospice).
BRATTLEBORO-That final, white furry haze of winter frost has come and gone. The meadow grasses, cool and damp against the soles of your feet, rise in springy clumps before the first mowing.
Early dawn, in her silk skirt and blouse, wipes sleep from her eyes and wraps her long arms around you, her soft embrace a blessing. She is a wisp, an apparition who disappears almost as soon as she arrives.
Now he appears, that emperor named Sun, low on the horizon between black tree trunks. What a show he puts on, dressed in his scarlet pajamas! You can scarcely believe the magnificence of it all, wish it would last all day. But as he rises slowly upward he sheds his sleep clothes, leaving them to fall to the forest floor then disappear in a faint peach-colored haze.
A doe is giving birth to her fawn in the thicket just beyond the edge of the meadow. Innumerable invisible beings crawl along the damp earth between blades of field grass; a moth’s small white wings do a fluttering waltz around your ankle.
A fat bumblebee appears out of nowhere in search of clover that hasn’t yet imagined its bloom. The odor of a skunk finds its way to you and refuses to depart. You are never alone.
No, you are never alone: Back at the cottage the dishes are standing at attention in the dish rack awaiting your return. The apron is hanging from its hook. Warmth from the woodstove travels to the corners of the room; the curtains sigh. Perhaps your unmade bed, in your absence, is savoring the feel of cool, light air filling the space where the weight of your warm body slept.
* * *
You arrive at the small pond where winter’s ice has thawed and peepers will serenade you this evening. A fringe of irises has begun to propel new fronds upward out of the murk at pond’s edge. In two weeks’ time they will unfurl their bright yellow headscarves, inviting the turtles to sunbathe on the nearby log that is lodged in the mud.
Small, dark fish dart here and there with no apparent destination. Dormant frogs will soon awaken from their gelatinous sleep and swim to the surface, belching their arrival. Good fortune will bring a blue heron in the afternoon.
The sun, rising higher now, is playing a game with you, depositing a faint freckle on the bridge of your nose before ducking behind a cloud.
The first turkey vulture of the season sails into the bowl of meadow from behind the tall trees, floating on currents warmed by beams of yellow light. Its widespread wings, serrated as a kitchen knife, tilt this way and that like a small plane at an airshow.
Two chickadees call from tree to tree. The newborn fawn has just risen on shaky legs and taken her first step. Her mother studies her with wide eyes and licks her clean. Without needing a lesson, the fawn latches on and suckles her first meal of warm velvet milk.
When her belly is full, mother and daughter will lie down on a nearby bed of thick moss. The fawn will nestle herself snugly against her mother’s belly and dream new dreams.
* * *
Dusk will come, followed by dark.
But all you have witnessed this morning at dawn — all you have sensed and smelled and felt — will not abandon you. Darkness will bring its own gifts: starlight, moonlight, candlelight; tea and a book beside the fire. Grief might arise, or fear; you might awaken, startled, in the middle of the night and feel the terror of solitude.
But now, this morning, awake in this meadow, nowhere to be found are the threadbare overcoat of unspeakable Anguish, or the tightly wound springboard of Fear, or that nagging houseguest called Doubt. Too far away to hear are the discordant notes of resentment and regret.
This morning, you are free of them. Free!
An owl in the lower branches of a nearby hemlock hoots in celebration of your freedom. Do you see her?
There she is, just beyond your shoulder, hooting and hooting, letting you know that springtime has come to the meadow, and you are never alone.
This Voices Essay was submitted to The Commons.
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