Autumn is a nice season, probably my favorite season, and with it's harvest and bounty I can see how the creators of Thanksgiving thought Autumn would be a good time to celebrate their gratefulness. But I really think they made a big mistake. I really think they missed the boat. We don't celebrate Christmas at the time of Christ's birth. Why should we celebrate Thanksgiving at the time of the pilgrim and indian dinner dance? (no indians were harmed in the writing of this post)...(it was a dinner dance, wasn't it?)
Don't you think Springtime is a much more grateful time of year? Sure Autumn has the harvest, but Spring has the promise of a harvest. It has hope and newness and life. It has light and growth.
I have had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude lately, completely eclipsing any like feelings I had at Thanksgiving. And of course this happens every Spring. When I get to feeling this way, this poem by e. e. cummings always comes to mind and I say it over and over in my head until I remember all the words again.
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
by e.e. cummings
I highly doubt this is the first time I have posted that poem. I can't help it. When I think of Springtime, I think of this poem.
Yesterday when I was out looking at the bulbs sprouting up, I noticed that they come up yellow and then turn green, and I thought to myself, "Nature's first green is gold." I even turned and said it to Dave, who thought I was an idiot, but I guess I never really noticed that nature's first green actually is gold.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
by Robert Frost
And maybe I was a little bit of an idiot, because you'd have to be one to think this poem is about Spring, which it is not, but still, it's a line that sticks in my mind (nature's first green is gold) and resurfaces each Spring.
And speaking of being idiotic, here is another one of my favorite Spring poems.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Little leaves opening stickily. I love it.
So Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope your day is filled with life and love and wings.