Why are you cast down, O my inner self? And why should you moan over me and be disquieted within me? (Psalm 43:5a)
Do not define yourself by your expectations. Life is full of change–that’s the only thing that’s certain. So protect your dream, but don’t let it limit you. (Corrine Bailey Rae)
Pain happens. It’s not a cut and clear, black and white issue. Most of the time I can attribute the source of my pain to something outside of me. And I could blame April. Or grief or changes, but it’s not easily defined. It pokes at me. Pinches me. Punches me, and pushes me down.
Unsought tears. A lump in my throat, a warm ache. A desire to climb back into some dark cave, and curl up for a little more sleep. I wonder if a seed feels this way, when the soil thaws, and rain soaks down around its kernel of life. I wonder if it cries, “Ouch!” when it’s thin skin begins to stretch and crack and dry out.
The blind seed can’t see that a green sprout pokes out causing this undefined pain.
I feel like a blind seed, uncertain what to do about this sudden pang of sadness.
So, I collage. It takes my mind off the ache.
And the process of gluing disparate pieces of imagery and color together, take me through passages of lament and release, and finally an acceptance, even a desire to let April have its way with me.
Ode to April
April warms and thaws,
and yet has the audacity
to plunge back into
April branches reaching
blue and gray skies,
straining to unfurl leaves.
April leaves promising
shade on those long
forgotten, humidly hot days,
when once again I plead:
April, bring back your
chilly, sweater born days.
What is your ode to April?
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