I bought a book of E.E. Cummings poems sight unseen because someone said they were told to read his poems in the spring. Spring remains my favorite time of year, in spite of the Northeast weather lions and months of muddy snow melt. Little shoots pop up, daffodils defy all logic, and one grey, snowy morning - no, your ears are not mistaken, the song birds have returned. It's magic every time.
It's our first week back to school, and I am reading the same books to my first grader that I read to many of his siblings. Mrs Darling still has that kiss no one can reach, Paddle to the Sea is still amazingly carved by hand, the first pages of our grammar book are still filled with the unimaginable secret delights of the learnéd.
The flowers aren't new, but the children are.
I heard that recently and it captures so much of this season of life! My teens do the same silly things all teens do, and have the same conversations about sass. My middles are still shocked school work exists and has it's hold on them, and would still rather be outside or watching TV. The baby still cackles with delight when we bounce her.
None of it is new. But all the children in all their stages are.
And me? Well, the daffodils aren't new but that first bobbing yellow head breaking through the snow thrills me every time. These books are now my dear old friends, and right in the middle of the chaos of our first week, I got the sweetest rest in a bed of first chapters. I held small, sticky, sun browned hands as we jumped from familiar old place to familiar old place. Familiar to me of course, but an absolute wonder to them!
The books aren't new, but the children are.
It's early Wednesday morning of our first week, I flipped open a random page to Cummings words:
Spring) and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves. ...