This is my symphony

It’s been a dreary winter, but that’s finally behind us: the crocus are up–purple, white, and yellow–and my mini daffodils, budding. The red wing blackbirds have been back at the feeder for a couple weeks. Robins are singing. And the past month has seen more sunshine than the whole of January.

My world, too, is brightening. I dreaded the approaching anniversary of my mom’s death, but when the day came, I felt a weight lift. I’m no longer caught off-guard by tears, nor do I dwell on the last months of her life. (I understand now the logic of the Victorians yearlong mourning period.) Nor do I linger overmuch on the end of my marriage. It’s as if my spirit gave up a deep sigh after this last year’s losses.

It’s no exaggeration to say that there have been more delights than I can count since the year began. Personal training. A new class at the Y. Coffee with a new friend, lunch with another. Tea with a neighbor. A season ticket to Broadway Grand Rapids next year. There’s a two-week trip out West in the works and camping galore this summer. I’ve even got a writing group or two in my future. I’ve reclaimed so much of what I lost in the past decade’s chaos, and it’s rare that a day goes by that I don’t feel as though my life is rich and fulfilling.

And I added some amazing colors in my kitchen because it only seems right that my outer world reflects the inner. The painters were a little dubious at my choices–“We usually paint neutrals”–but they were good sports, and I told them, “I live in a girl house now and if lipstick (their name for the cerise shade) makes me happy, lipstick it will be.” Add some newly stitched cloth napkins in bright patterns and a wool-looped hot-pad and there’s no. way. I’m giving darkness a place at my table. Not any more.

It’s been a good month for books, that’s for sure. Book club read We Are Not Like Them by Christine Pride and Jo Piazza, and it’s a perfect choice for discussion: friendship, marriage, racial bias, and police brutality all wrapped up in one title. Hard questions. A friend mentioned her book club was reading Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby and it proved a good companion read, of sorts, to We Are Not Like Them. A gay couple is murdered and their ex-con dads set out to avenge the death. (I do admit I skipped over much of the shooting and punching and knifing, though.) I picked up an older Anita Shreve novel that I had somehow missed, Light On Snow and it was a tender coming of age story about grief and growing-up without a mother. Friend Denice loaned me The Littlest Library by Poppy Alexander, a chick lit book I could agree to: English countryside, library-in-a-phone-box, and love found at last. I’ve got one more novel left on my current TBR pile, and then I’ll need to do some restocking.

Life is good, am I right?