The Blossoming

Overnight, the cherry tree has blossomed.  Next year, I would like to, somehow, know the night that this will happen and set out the Adirondack chairs, with their accompanying table, near the tree.  The sun will be setting and ML and I will take our places and await the grand opening. 

The light will be changing, deepening, and all the birds will be saying goodnight to each other.  The shapes of the trees and the houses nearby, and the mountains to the west, will be taking on new meaning and character.  My car, outside the garage, will begin dreaming of long, curving stretches of blacktop, with the radio fulfilling its purpose and the air rushing by, as it exercises all cylinders.

ML and I will toast each other and quietly discuss the day’s events and thoughts.  We will review the conditions of the children and our friends.  We will count our blessings, as the moon rises behind us, and this new light will allow a different type of observation to begin.

The first star will introduce itself and give us a minute to compose our wishes.  For a while, we will both be lost in our own thoughts, a quiet review, and an anticipation of things to come, a silent thank you, radiating outwards from our soft hearts.

Down by the road, a coyote will warble or call or howl or however you want to characterize it.  In fact, it isn’t any of those, but simply his sound, his expression, just like our conversation, but his is intended for a more widespread audience.  The owls in the neighborhood will exchange the who-whos that signal the beginning of their day.

Like a tide, immeasurable and inevitable, the light will change, the night progress, and all the rushing around, the activity, the competing thoughts of the day will settle, slowly, and a calm will come over everything.  This calm will feel like an almost tangible addition to the darkened, quieted, yet incredibly alive moment, near the tree.  Our patient hearts will begin to fill with anticipation.

As the moon finishes its glide, to a point almost directly overhead, an overture, like the buzz before a show, will begin.  There will be a slight breeze through the warm night.   And, then, all of us – ML, myself, the flowers at our feet, the stars shining down, from above, on all of us, animal, vegetable, and mineral – will be able to feel the moment when it begins: that first blossom.  There, on the left, about halfway up.  Or, no, near the bottom, over there.   Before we can decide which was actually first, it ‘s happening all over. 

A song, part lullaby, part hymn, part love song, is being sung.  The blossoms swell the chorus.  This is a performance, but also an experience of exultation for each blossom and, ultimately, for the entire tree.  It is a living, breathing expression, a celebration of its own being, its history, its future and its innermost existence.

Everything is hushed and attentive.  The blossoming continues until completion and, then, in a rush of emotion and appreciation, ML and I rise out of our chairs, applauding.  I hear the coyotes and the owls adding their praise.  A noise bursts out of my mouth that takes me by surprise, an inarticulate sound of connection.  ML begins to whistle and stamp her feet.  It’s a beautiful moment.

First, one and, then, two windows light up in the neighbor’s house.  I look across the street and see one there.  ML and I hug, beam at the tree and its individual decorations, alive with purpose, out and about for the season, and turn toward the house and our beds.