Our house was built in 1929. It was the eleventh house we saw on our house-hunting search a few years ago, and when we walked through the front door, we knew we were home. I continue to learn about this house; I know which floorboards squeak and what time of year the hallway under the swamp cooler vent is drafty. I know that if I crack the blinds in our East-facing eating nook that the sun will cast elongated triangles of light on the walls of my West-facing bedroom in the mornings. After a broken-English conversation with our Vietnemese landscaper I know that the mound of ants on our front sidewalk is only a signal that the weather will likely be changing, and not a reason to beckon an exterminator. When Eric and I were house-hunting, we drew a red circle around this very neighborhood. We loved the mature lots and historic feel and towering trees. We moved in long after Spring had sprung and the dead of Summer was upon us. Central air was unheard of in the 20s (as were, say, closets, and master bedrooms), but that's what we signed up for when we chose this house. Moving in in June, it wasn't until the following April--when Colorado is in its Great Thaw and the natives are ouside tossing frisbees despite the 50 degree chill in the air--that I saw something new to my native eyes. Forsythia.
Having lived the majority of my formative years in the foothills of Evergreen, I surmise that this wild, neon shrub called forsythia was edged out of the mountain ecosystem by some 1,000 feet, or so. I know it seems silly to be so excited about a bush, but what struck me is that one day I was driving through my neighborhood and all I saw were the brown, dry, rustling remnants of a Colorado winter. The very following day our neighborhood was ablaze with wild, eratic, neon, forsythia. It's as though Bob Ross had paid our neighborhood a nocturnal visit and punctuated the drab city streets with "happy little shrubs" overnight. Their contrast against weather-worn fences and frozen Earth was stunning to me. It symbolized how quickly things can change. One day life is drab; the next it is vibrant.
For a lot of my close friends and family, it has been a tough year. I have watched life and circumstances change in an instant--for the worst: a negative pregnancy test, miscarriage, death or severe illness of a loved one, termination from a job, divorce. I have cried out to the heavens on behalf of numerous grieving, aching friends pleading that Something's Gotta Give.
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One of my best friends was having a rough day. She was frustrated and distraught and decided to retreat to her bedroom to collect herself for a moment. When she descended her staircase back into reality her eldest son presented her with a picture he had scribbled during her respite. Scrawled across the page were the words "His mercies are new every morning." This little kiddo used a scripture from Lamentations to remind his Mom that, "hey, there's always tomorrow." Faith like a child.
We planted two forsythia bushes in our backyard. They were too puny to produce blossoms this Spring. I cannot predict what next year has in store. But perhaps I, too, will need the promise of Spring's rebirth. Perhaps I will need the wild, neon, forsythian reminder that life and circumstances are capable of changing in an instant--for the better.
