There’s been a slow drizzling overcast hanging low all day. I’m sure you’ve been experiencing it too. There’s something comforting about the constant sound and stillness. I am sitting across from an unlit fireplace and I can hear its dull echo through the chimney, too. This kind of rain brings me hope because I feel that when the drab gray lifts, it will take with it the dreary brown as well and leave behind a stubbly freshness, an incomparable shade of green, that is possibly even more remarkable, not in itself, but because of what it replaces.
The pine green is dear and delicious to the senses, but like a faithful old friend, it doesn’t, can’t even, stir the sparks of new love and affection that the sprouting green does. As warmly stable as the evergreen is throughout the year, it is almost stoic. The smell, even, grows stale.
The pale green things, like a newborn, bright at first as life rushes through it, but subsiding to a clear, light, softness as life settles, will shape the hills for a few short months. Right now though they grow secretly, vastly and vividly, needing the fog to muffle their excited movements, whispers, and shouts before they can suddenly appear. They are nudging and shoving away their winter cloaks as they enter the airy and free brightness of the ballroom, anxious to show forth and be conformed into the overwhelming hue and bustle of new gowns.
The artificial greens are in my foresight right now; manufactured, produced, conjured, their chemically stimulated existence laying claim to the overcast days like this. They maintain anticipation and tide us over year round but are unable to compete with the coming of the seasons. Like minor league scrimmages when the major leaguers take their much needed rejuvenation periods, they cause the return of baseball season to be welcomed even more enthusiastically.
Even though Astro-turf is gradually taking over the fields across our dry land, it is striking in its artificiality with how it seeks to imitate the fresh, newness. In its springy touch it resonates the sense of new earth – as long as not examined with any closeness or length of time.
The hazy sky serves it too, cleaning and purifying its plastic blades and rubber foundation. But in my feet I long for the bareness of the earth, even if cluttered, dirt-laden, and cracked hard with dryness. Maybe it’s the sympathy of my heart, reaching out for what it is undeniably connected with, the commonality being a parched rawness. Or maybe it is the age-old, innately rooted hope that when the fog lifts it will carry away the shrouding filth while leaving behind a moist touch, a gentle kiss, and a tenderly revitalizing spirit of growth.