It is the month of Mighty Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty.
There is new light, new life, beginnings, growth, and moving forward. There is heady abundance in every bush flower and tree that I see and smell. It is overwhelming and most welcome.
I long to see my family up north, every photo of mustard fields that Mom shares with me immediately throws me into whole-hearted hankering for my homeland.
I'm from Forestville, it's a small town. It is flanked by vineyards, with a river running through it, with tall redwood trees, and a winding route to the ocean. It is ridiculously bewitching. I come home to myself when I return there, the iron in that soil whispers to the iron in the blood of my own beating heart.
Until the family is all vaccinated and we can see each other safely, not visiting the north is paramount. Due to medical requirements, I won't be getting my vaccine until July, doctor's orders.
Such a bummer.
Practicing patience in a time when the public has HAD IT (and is already behaving in ways that fill me with trepidation) is a little harder than usual. During the delirious and delicious fever of spring, patience feels out of place: arduous, pedantic, strained.
Because I've had it too, I'm so tired of this.
But the scent of briny water from Goat Rock beach, the quiet redwood forest floor, the ample turning leaves of endless grapevines, rolling fog, rolling hills, lazy river currents, it's worth the wait. Hugging my Mom will be worth it, enjoying time with family will be worth worth worth it.
April paintings will no doubt involve much rumination on the acceptance of delay.
Watch this space.