Early Saturday morning, Mark and May hiked to the top of Peters Hill in the Arnold Arboretum. It was wet and blustery, and I'd run to beat them there.
These days I find myself reciting T.S. Eliot: "April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain." In other words, starting again only revives a painful past.
But I don't really believe that. We're visiting family, and in Maine woods it's hard to see how this could be anything but a hopeful season. Osiris rises. Persephone returns. The stone is rolled away.
The best cure for cabin fever is Wakefield Lake. Unleashed, our toddler ran everywhere. Under the slide, up the hill, around the gazebo, back down to the beach. He's a natural explorer. He just hasn’t figured out how to point with one finger. I love that. His stocky little body and big gestures often remind me of Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes. (Now there's a shoot idea!)