The birthday of my life is come

I have always loved Springtime so much that I felt a tiny bit cheated because my birthday was in February.  It felt like it should be in April or May, because that's when I feel like I really come to life again each year. 

Getting married in April felt right for the same reason.  I love the way this poem describes the awakening and anticipation and re-birth that comes with finding love: "the birthday of my life is come/ My love is come to me."  Being married has been like being awakened.  Every year when our anniversary comes around, I feel like I am celebrating another year of my REAL life---the life I began with Sam ten years ago---and which I hope to continue forever.  It's been more exciting and interesting and surprising and silly and fun and hopeful and challenging and exhilarating and satisfying and delightful than I ever could have imagined it would be.
from A Birthday
by Christina Rossetti

Raise me a daïs of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
We didn't have a digital camera back then
I had the good sense to say yes twice
Our finest hour

Circumstances haven't allowed us any wild and lavish celebrations this year, but having another sweet baby join our family seems like a fitting way to observe such an Occasion. I can't wait to embark on the next hundred (years, not babies)! 

Love you, my Sam.  Thank you for making every day Springtime.

Early Spring

Even with the cold and the snow, there IS a difference in the air and the trees this time of year.  I was saying to Sam the other day, the bare branches of the trees seem like they should look the same as they do in November---but they don't.  They are softer, maybe, or more hazy with almost-yellow color.  It's hopeful, somehow. 

Naturally, Rilke says all this better than I do.  [He was a German poet.  Don't let the "Maria" fool you into thinking he is a woman, as I did for some time.  Although interestingly enough, I read that his mother called him "Sophie" and dressed him in girls' clothes until he was 5 because she had had a baby daughter die earlier.]  So, a Spring poem for you:

Early Spring
by Rainer Maria Rilke

Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,

hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
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