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Moon Path on the Powow... March 27, 2021.
Powow River
Spring
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![Bloodroot- <br />
<br />
Long have I marked the passage of time through recognizing the subtle changes in nature as the new seasons unfold. Although I have always been quite fond of winter, it always does my soul good to see spring arrive like an old friend I’ve been thinking of. Here near the seacoast in southeastern New Hampshire we are often able to find flocks of robins throughout the winter, so they are not to us a real sign of spring. The true harbinger is our friend the Red-winged Blackbird, and when we hear his piping notes in the marsh behind our house we know that winter’s grasp is weakening.<br />
<br />
As the ice on our pond melts and begins to drift away, and the disappearing snow turns the ground to muddy cushion, I begin to long for the brown and gray to give way to green. In the garden I look for the Snowdrops who arrive weeks before the first crocus, and often push their way up right through the snow. Soon afterward the crocus and daffodil come on the scene to bring color to the bleak landscape. The eagles who have taken a liking to our pond seem thankful as the ice recedes and their fishing territory expands.<br />
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All of this is well and good, but in my heart I long for the growing things to awaken in the forest and the meadows. The curled shapes of Skunk Cabbage sprouting in the wetlands is always a good sign that the earth is warming and that we are slipping out of winter’s icy fingers. I had long thought that the lovely Purple Trillium was one of the first wildflowers to arrive on the scene, but over the years as I have ventured out earlier and earlier in search of waking things I have discovered that it is not early at all in comparison to others.<br />
<br />
It is about now, in late March and early April that I will go tramping in one of my favorite woods, Pawtuckaway. Since I was a young man and finally grew past the age of idiot adolescence I have sought peace and solitude among its ancient hills and boulders. For thirty years or more I have been going here to reclaim my spirit from the drudgery of the working realm which had sapped my strength and patience. Here I first brought my boys to camp and paddle and swim and to learn to enjoy the world of outside that lay beyond their front door.<br />
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We would spend hot summer days hiking to the fire tower high above Pawtuckaway Lake to see distant hills and vistas, only to return to the cool shade by the water where we could splash for hours before filling our empty stomachs on campfire fare, then dozing off as we stared into the flames of a roaring fire, dreaming sweet dreams of a beautiful and perfect world. It was days like this that helped me let go of selfish youth and to mature into the man I needed to be to set an example for my sons.<br />
<br />
As the boys grew and set off on their own adventures I was left again to tramp through the hills and boulders alone, seeking their comfort and assurance that not all in the world was drab and dreary, that from the hubris sprouted new and beautiful things, even if only for a short time. Over the years I have come to learn that there are other, delicate living things who yearn for the warmth of spring as much as my winter weary soul.<br />
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And so I set out to tramp the hills again. Where once I was surrounded by the tinkling voices of my elven children who had yet to know the fear and pain that the world can bring I am now alone with my thoughts. It is early April and before me I find the red leaves and the fuzzy stalks of the first wildflowers to awaken, the Hepatica. The petals of the flower come in a wide array of colors varying from white to deep blue. As the sun warms them each day they open to reveal to me their inner beauty and I stand in awe to gaze at their delicate petals.<br />
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In the days to come as I search through the brown carpet of last autumn’s leaves I can find the green leaves of the Trillium not quite ready to reveal their beautiful, blood-red petals. I know it is time now to go in search of the one dearest to my heart, the Bloodroot. I come upon the place I know them to grow and I can see them rising up above the stony earth. Their green leaves remind me of cactus as they wrap around the tiny, fragile flower and cradle it like a father holding his infant son.<br />
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My heart melts as I watch them bounce on the gentle breeze, but then I feel it. In my throat I feel the bile of the memory I try to suppress each spring. Horror engulfs me as I vividly recall the passing of my oldest son, taken from this world as these flowers awoke from their winters sleep. I fall to my knees with the weight of this burden, the world goes dark, and there, beside these delicate flowers I weep until I no longer can sense the passage of time. I go numb and all turns black. There is no religious belief, no word of comfort, that can quell the emptiness that consumes me.<br />
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With each passing moment a little of me dies and fades away, and then like fog lifting from a pond I remember that I was this flower once, cradling my fragile son with leathery arms. I slowly recover, like the warmth of spring awakening from the frost of winter. I wipe my salty cheeks with my sleeve. The sun beats on my neck reminding me that like this flower I was once young and new and held the world in the crook of my arms. Even though it was a short time I give thanks that I was blessed with this experience, bittersweet though it may now seem.<br />
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A cloud drifts in front of the sun and time begins again. I realize that while I once cradled this child, I was blessed with two more who came after and have not left this world yet. Like the cloud my mind drifts, and I think of the words of those I have long cherished even though they are no more than the wisp of cloud that has now dissipated:<br />
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Theoden: Simbelmyne. Ever has it grown on the tombs of my forebears. Now it shall cover the grave of my son. Alas, that these evil days should be mine. The young perish and the old linger. That I should live to see the last days of my house. <br />
Gandalf: Théodred's death was not of your making. <br />
Theoden: No parent should have to bury their child. <br />
Gandalf: He was strong in life. His spirit will find the way to the halls of your fathers. <br />
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And then:<br />
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Pippin: I didn't think it would end this way. <br />
Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path... One that we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass... And then you see it. <br />
Pippin: What? Gandalf?... See what? <br />
Gandalf: White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise. <br />
Pippin: [smiling] Well, that isn't so bad. <br />
Gandalf: [softly] No... No it isn't. <br />
<br />
Soon now it will be time to go tramping on the ancient hillsides in search of these sparkling gems that renew my faith each spring. Once again I will kneel beside them and welcome them back to this world under the sun, and they will remind me that once, like them, I cradled something precious in my arms. Thank you Pawtuckaway, from you I have learned much... your paths have given me joy and soothed my despair.<br />
<br />
KD Talbot 3-26-13<br />
<br />
My Oldest Boy, Jack, left us 15 years ago today... My Middle Son Beren has now, too passed... April 1, 2021.](https://photos.smugmug.com/DailyPhoto-3/Daily-Photo-2021/i-sLWzKT3/0/bca2185a/Ti/20210401-0005-Ti.jpg)
