Point of View: So Green, So Green

“Moonstruck.”

“It’s so green, O’en, so green!” I said as we walked down Main Street recently. “See the dark green, the yellow green, the gnarly roots. . . .”

Back at the office, Isabel and I talked, I forget why, perhaps because the giddiness that the grass, the trees, and the deliciously chilling spring air invoked, of “Moonstruck.”

“La luna, la bella luna!”

“Loretta, it’s a miracle!”

“I’ve got a question: Why do men chase women?”

“They’re afraid of death?”

“That’s it! That’s it! They’re afraid of death.”

Don’t look at me. I’m not afraid of death. Well, just a bit maybe. If the universe is ever-expanding, will I feel expansive — as I often do down here — in the afterlife? I do like that feeling, that feeling of leafing out that spring brings. Winter is inward-turning, which is all right too, especially if you have someone to turn in with. In short, I still rather like it all. Aum Sweet Aum. And O’en’s just begun and we must keep up with him, look after him, keep him safe as he waxes in wisdom teeth.

Jimmy used to think perennials were boring inasmuch as they kept coming back all the time. In his case, though, I might be partial to reincarnation, hoping that the next time he not be plagued by schizophrenia. He was the most intelligent of them all, Mary says, and deserved much better. She thinks of him all the time now, and was wondering the other day if that was what happened when somebody close to you died, to wit, that they became part of you. We are not individuals, then, but composites, communities in fact if we live long enough. We are they. Higher souls probably leaf out far more than the average, though I imagine severyone does to some extent. There is death, yes, but resurrection too. And, as a result, we left behind are not our same old selves, but augmented! Reborn in a way, as are they. Spring is a good time to think of this.

Of course, spring also brings with it catkins and pollen, and, ultimately, the siege of summer people. “This is the raiment for their entertainment,” I said to O’en, pointing up at the elms and down at the manicured grass in front of the 1770 House. 

I’ll try to be nicer this year, not such a grouch, more democratic, as O’en is. I’ll try to look at the big picture. And besides, it’s Mary’s birthday, more than enough reason to exult in the season and to look with equanimity — if not with giddy anticipation — toward the next.