weather

Snow. Rain. Sun. Snow. Rain. Sun. Hail. Sun. Hmmm..... this is spring in Portland. 

In the car, after driving through the hail, Jacob says, "I want it to hail again. Hail again!"
I say, "That's right, talk to those clouds."
Jacob says, "I'm not talking to the clouds. I'm talking to you, Mommy."
I say, laughing, "Well, I am not in charge of the weather. I cannot make it hail."
Jacob, "Are you not a cloud, Mommy?"
"No, Jacob, I am not."

At this point, one must look for inspiration in words, not outside my own window.

The Singular and Cheerful Life - Mary Oliver

 

The singular and cheerful life

of any flower

in anyone's garden

or any still unowned field-

if there are any-

catches me

by the heart,

by its color

by its obedience

to the holiest of laws:

be alive

until you are not.

Ragweed,

pale violet bull thistle,

morning glories curling

through the field corn;

and those princes of everything green-

the grasses

of which there are truly

an uncountable company,

each on its singular stem

striving

to rise and ripen.

What, in the earth world,

is there not to be amazed by

and to be steadied by

and to cherish?

Oh, my dear heart,

my own dear heart,

full of hesitations,

questions, choice of directions,

look at the world.

Behold the morning glory,

the meanest flower, the ragweed, the thistle.

Look at the grass.

P.S. The bold print was my own doing. Those parts that struck me.