FEBRUARY IS FOR LOVE
February is the month of love. I like knowing this, for love is a blessing.
Each night on my futon, when drifting into sleep, I count my loves, cherishing each as a blessing. Beginning with my own gift of life, I count my family—Simon, Liko, Edward; Lex, Audrey, Sophie, Trooper; David, Betsy, their beautiful brood; Fanny; Butch, Bob, their beloveds. I count our amazing planet, her beauty and wonder always cradling us. I count my friends and the people I encounter in my work and play. I count art and artCentral and the artists and art lovers that fill my days and dreams
Counting the blessings of my loves in this enchanting February leaves me eager to have and celebrate ever more. As though hearing my request, I feel the earth and atmosphere trembling with “yes”.
In the Celtic Isles the old folks think of February as the true beginning of spring. When I go outdoors and pay attention, I agree. Walking down my driveway to fetch my paper past my sparkling, frosted car, in early hours our world smells fresh and full of newness to be discovered. Pregnant buds adorning limb tips seem to be singing with the birds at the feeders. Daffodils in the cottage gardens are peeking through winter’s mulch, pushing up their green stemmed promises. When the noon sunshine kisses the soil, subtle hints of wakening loam tickle my nose. Yes, February is the herald of spring’s lovely delights about to happen.
I never knew this more than when living in an Ozarks wilderness valley. Every new February brought the same exquisite sensations of spring stirrings. Sitting early-morning-bundled in my back porch swing, my two canine companions fed and resting content at my feet, while I look beyond the fencerows to the backdrop of three majestic mountains and the snow melt stream winding around their feet, ever so faintly a sweet scent comes gently wafting to me.
Compelled to shed my fuzzy slippers, I pull on heavy hiking boots, wool hat and my warm parka. Off we three rush across the pasture, on our annual search for the source of anticipated pleasure. Like always, there they stand along the banks of the Little Buffalo River—a copse of witch hazel saplings weaving their magical February spell with their feathery, fragrant blossoms as fragile and as sure as imaginings, as blessings, as loves.
Art, too, is about imaginings, blessings and loves.