Spring fever wins out

CHASING DOWN THE MUSE

There is an expectant flurry among all the bird life outside. Song

falls from their mouths like the abundant seed from the garden

feeder. I catch up the tune before it can hit the ground -- “Come out

and play,” it seems to say.

I’ve got it bad. Spring fever, that is. The colors call out to me

to frolic and play. Green yells out to me to come roll in the grass.

Yellow shouts to me to dance. Red beckons me to open wings and take

flight. Delicate lavender, pink and deep blues cause my heart to leap

from my chest to my throat.

Redolent aroma of freesia blooms, trampled grass underfoot or the

luscious red fall of roses fill up my nostrils. The sweet fragrances

are like the sustenance of food. All of plant life seems to be

sending out lush sprouts and seeds of new growth just for me.

“Come play. Come play.” I am called by the birds in the trees. A

hummingbird appears at the window, hovering, beckoning me outside. I

want to. I want to. There is so much to do. No, I can’t. I must not.

The caw of a crow mocks me as the gentle dove’s coo sounds, “Come on.

Come on, now.”

Just for a small, itsy-bitsy, teeny minute, I will look out toward

the sea for refreshment. That will do. Ah. My heart fills at the

sight of sunlight dancing on the deep blue-green of the water. OK.

Back to work. I must finish.

When I was a child, it was just this time of year when I was

repeatedly called to explore, to go out into the world seeking

answers to unasked questions. As spring in all its abundance calls to

me now, the child in me remembers the juice of fresh-plucked oranges

running down my chin and my arms. Greedy for the rich sweetness, I

jammed pulpy segments into my mouth. The child remembers the peace of

watching as birds gathered bits to make their nests. The child feels

the prickle on the back of her neck as she lolled in fields tall with

swaying grass. The child in me recalls with great joy the fullness of

arms and self as she skipped home, arms laden with masses of wild

hyacinth to bring springtime inside, if just for a while.

Torn, I think that maybe the purchase of a large bunch of flowers

would do. It might at least assuage some part of the longing. But it

isn’t enough. Even as the rational part of me thinks it through, I

know this. And a butterfly passing by in erratic flight is just one

more pull to “come out, come out.”

No, I can’t, my adult repeats. There is a column to write. There

are clients to see. Bills need paying. The house needs cleaning. I am

way behind in my art work. I must stay here. I must. Wistful, I turn

from the window. I just won’t look. “Come out now, yes, yes,” calls

the dove, mournful that I won’t.

Who will care? Who will chide me? The now grown-up child asks

these questions. Isn’t this why I’ve chosen the work that I do?

Wasn’t it for just this kind of freedom to answer the call of the

fields? What more could one ask than this? What more than to ramble,

to explore, to sit down in tall grass and sway with it. What more

than to feast on the healing colors of nature, to dance to the sound

of wind and birdsong, to laugh at the bouncing flight of a butterfly?

What can be more uplifting than to watch as nature’s transformation

takes place once again?

I leap up, leaving my desk a messy pile of books and papers,

Vivaldi’s “Rites of Spring” playing in the background. “I’m coming.

I’m coming,” calls out my child. “Wait. Please wait. Here I come.”

* CHERRIL DOTY is a creative living coach, writer and artist who

lives and works in Laguna Beach. She can be reached at

emmagine8@aol.com or by phone at 251-3883.