Smile

There’s something special about the smell of wet dirt. Lately, I open the door and the aroma puts my senses on alert, conjuring up vivid images of a childhood spent building mud cakes and mud castles. I grew up in the desert, which meant that much of our mud was intentionally created, lest we be content to wait months for the next rain shower. But what’s the point in waiting when you can create your own magic?

These days finds me in a much more lush environment. It’s rained on and off for the last several days and although the skies may have seemed temporarily devoid of laughter, the scurry of squirrels uncovering their winter treasures and the emergence of buds on the trees announces the coming of springtime. Yet, what strikes me most as I watch the obvious signs of spring unfurl, each day with greater grandness, is that the energy this season gives me is no different than that which I felt while watching the unique birth of spring in the desert.

As I drove through the neighborhood and strolled around the park on an unexpectedly sunny day this Easter Sunday, it seemed clear to me that much of the world around me is similarly struck with that sense of newness that spring seems to bring with it. I watched as a mother diligently and patiently weeded her front lawn as her two young children, sporting colorful galoshes and bright, plastic, kid-size gardening tools, chased each other around the yard. The beginning of yet another generation of beautiful gardeners, I thought. I may not be good with plants, but I can certainly appreciate someone else’s artistry.

The park held an abundance of energy. From a plethora of four-legged friends of all shapes and sizes bouncing around the park with their owners to a multitude of arts enthusiasts capturing the beauty of the moment on cameras, canvases, or through their music, the masterpiece of the day was not lost on those who chose to venture out. For me, much of the beauty comes from the unexpected — like the gnarled, bare-branched tree standing stoically beside the wispy willow flowing gently with the breeze. Or, perhaps, the group of 20 or so adults playing a friendly game of “quiddich”, complete with brooms and all. No flying in this version, though.

As I returned home I came to the conclusion that clearly, the wonder is all around us. From the sprout of the first tulip or the scurry of the first lizard … the sound of the morning robins or the popping of raindrops against the roof … the whistle of the wind as it sneaks in through a barely open window or the smell of wet dirt after a torrential downpour. It’s there. All around us.