Everything must wait its turn; peach blossoms for the second month, chrysanthemums for the ninth.
Blossoms open in the spring, I wait for them, yearn for the color, the smell, the glorious riot of bloom. The whole world comes to life again. Forcing the bloom gives one the pleasure of color and beauty in winter but it does not give one the absolute abundance of dancing, waving, flourishing life, only one small flower in the midst of white.
Can I wait for spring? Will it come this year? I dance in the winter but in spring I fly, my feet lift off the ground and I can see so much that has been hidden. In spring the tennis ball bounces more crisply, silky shirts and skirts replace the bulky warm ups of winter. In spring I hear the music of laughter, calypso and cha cha replace the staid waltz of winter. The rumba replaces the hymn. It is time to dance, to twirl with joy, to
throw my arms around life.
My urgency for the passing of the quiet time, the cold, the housebound hush of winter grows stronger - time passes too slowly. I am impatient for more! I cannot abide another day of waiting and yet my urgency has no power, no magical wand waving makes the day draw nearer. I cannot force the bloom. And so I wait.
