One minute ago I was running (running!) with my grandson along the edge of the beach, chasing the moon’s shadow. It rose behind us in all its glory, as our bare feet skittered in and out of the still warm water.
“Remember this,” I whispered, “when the sand is frozen and icebergs hug the shoreline.”
Last Saturday, rain cascaded from gray clouds and I caught glimpses of leaves fluttering through the tumult, settling atop a floor of yellow. Soaking wet, my grandson stood with his back to me in the goalie box. The field in front of him was slippery and his teammates scurried back and forth, chasing the soccer ball over the turf, unconscious of the elements. He looked small and vulnerable.
“Remember this,” I whispered, “when he’s 15, and walks with the saunter of adolescence.”
In May, I walked along the beach, breathing in the promise of spring. I longed to embrace it, hug it to my body, and hold it in place. It wiggled from my arms soon enough, the heat of summer, the crowds and activity backing me off.
The seasons are methodical, consistent in their movement and pay me no heed. I must seize moments, like driftwood and beach stones, tucking them inside my pocket to admire later, when I’m cold and lonely.
The fireplace will warm me soon enough, embers spit against the screen, dry wood crackle, orange and red flames dance. I must remind myself to shut the world out and be still.
Outside, dissonance stirs. No thunder or welcome clatter of rain on the roof, but voices rising and falling in egocentric discourse. I am weary of them. Turn them off; sweep them away like dusty leaves, piles of mulch for historians to tend.
Remember this: Spring will come again when it’s due. Bulbs planted this week will nestle in the cold earth until the Creator nudges them awake. They won’t disappoint.
Life keeps pace; it does not tarry when I am reluctant. In the meantime, I’ll fill my mind with kind thoughts, peaceful moments and precious memories.
— By Ann Brugger, Tribune community columnist