If only there were a scratch-and-sniff option on this blog ...

Unless you suffer from seasonal allergies, I highly recommend going outside and taking a deep breath.

If you're lucky, you may be in the vicinity of a lilac, and your nose will ascend to heaven. Those delicate lavender and white blossoms are about to leave us for another year, so gather that glorious scent while ye may.

I'm fortunate to be able to simply walk onto my front porch and inhale, thanks to a lovely lilac I transplanted from my folks' house about 20 years ago.

Mowing our front lawn last week proved less of a chore each time I ducked under those perfumed branches. 

Knowing how fleeting they are makes them that much sweeter. Savor them, because you can only experience lilacs once a year.

Unless …

A couple years ago, I serendipitously discovered a way to double that pleasure. All it took was a trip out west to visit family in Idaho and Washington state (a more than momentary joy).

It was late May, and the lilacs back home were long gone, just a fond olfactory memory. Now, I knew the Northwestern climate was cooler than ours, but never thought about what that would mean in terms of spring flowers.

Until I stepped out of our car in northern Idaho and caught a familiar, heavenly scent: lilac -- again! The bush by my father-in-law's apartment was just beginning to bloom. I felt doubly blessed, given the gift of lilacs squared.

So, if you really love lilacs, you only have to travel 2,500 miles to get a second helping.

'Twas well worth the trip.

Once again, it pays to look down.

Seen in passing …

The invisible made visible, thanks to a passel of cherry blossom petals.

As I walked through my neighborhood this morning, I saw those pink petals playing ring-around-the-rosie in the street. Their game lasted just a few breezy seconds before they all fell down.

The wind doesn't just blow, it swirls.

Pretty in pink

---

As a writer and editor, I strive for accuracy. After I wrote this post, I questioned whether the petals I saw were from a cherry or a crab apple tree (to my eyes they're similar).

I headed out and found the tree in question. Feeling bold, I rang the doorbell of the house where the tree lives. When one of the owners answered the door, I introduced myself, and explained my quest. 

She happily replied that indeed, the tree is a weeping cherry. We chatted for a bit, and she encouraged me to come back when the wisteria is in bloom around their porch.

I could have used the internet to answer my question, but it was so much nicer to meet a fellow human.

Those myriad fine lines will soon be filled with leaves.

Spring is all about potential.

The natural world is fairly bursting with possibilities … for growth, blooming, blossoming change. Winter browns are making room for greens, yellows, pinks and purples. The returning colors warm my heart.

Last week I made a point of giving myself the gift of time outside. I walked to work twice (about 40 minutes each way), and hiked into the woods above our house one afternoon, just to soak it all in. Call it natural therapy.

Brown will soon give way to green.

On my Tuesday walk, which took me through a swath of woods, I looked up and noticed that the trees were still leafless, though tiny buds told me that wouldn't last long. As much as I love leaves, I also have a fondness for the silhouettes of trees in winter. I lingered at the sight of those bare branches reaching up and across the sky.

The next day I explored another patch of woods. I looked up again, this time armed with my camera, and saw so much more than bare branches. An astonishing network of thready, delicate stems arced overhead, each one home to a future leaf, a canopy nothing short of colossal.

Saturday's walk came after the rain, offering me puddles mirroring the world above. I took my time -- and lots of pictures. 

I also turned down the worries noising around in my head and tuned into the song that is spring. Birds peeped, chirped, and sometimes squawked. The sun beamed warmth, while a gentle breeze cooled my face.

        I breathed deep, and gave thanks.

The sky below my feet

An oval puddle painting

We all start small.

Recent encounters with the youngest among us have reminded me of how much we have to learn, to figure out, and … accept as we grow.

Children are miraculous sponges, absorbing, taking the world in -- and storing it all for future reference.

While waiting in line at a department store the other day, I noticed a little girl standing at the counter with her father. As her dad and the cashier went through the everyday motions of a sale, the little one stood transfixed. She observed every part of the transaction intently: handing over the clothes, scanning, swiping, typing, bagging -- done! 

Lesson in the marketplace complete.

That intensity of focus is impressive.

I saw another example of it this week, while walking our dog, Louie, past a neighborhood park where a mom and two little girls were playing. When the toddler of the two spotted Lou, she headed straight for the fence between us. Eyes laser-focused on the dog, she pointed (in a way that suggested the gesture was fairly newly learned), and said quietly, "Woof, woof."

"Ah, you speak his language," I said.

"Yes, she's fluent," her proud mom replied.

Lesson in communication complete.

Alas, in life, some lessons are harder learned.

At the library where I work, we offer several story times, including one for the under-2 set.

Story times are reliably upbeat and positive. One memorable session, however, reminded me of "existential story time," a running joke I share with a friend whose sense of humor also veers to the dark side.

        Think Mr. Rogers with angst.

  After listening to stories and moving to music, one little girl simply could not accept the concept of having to give back the bead-filled plastic egg she'd been given to shake along with the song.

"I want my egg," she said. "Mommy, I want my egg."

She repeated her plea, over and over again. Maternal explanations did not compute.

She began to wail, and her patient mom carried her outside. I could still hear her beyond the door: "I want my egg," her voice ranging from small and plaintive to loud and adamant, trying to find the right tone that would bring back her egg.

  They came back in.

The librarian said, "Ok, everybody. Pick out a book to read with your mommy."

Silence.

"I want my egg."

Sigh. Egg-istential lesson, not quite complete.

My reward for walking after dark:

Low-slung sliver of moon,

Bright smile lingering in the night.

Remnants of snow, with a side of spring.

As kids, we understood the joy of snow.

As grownups, we too often see snow as a burden, something to be removed, shoved aside, and avoided.

Last night, I took a walk in the snow, and remembered the joy.

The flakes were just beginning to fall as I headed up the hill for the Ash Wednesday service at our church. By the time I headed back home, snow had muffled the parking lot. While others began the chore of sweeping off their cars, I simply walked off into the snow globe.

At the top of the hill I stopped near a street lamp, just to watch. The flakes caught the light and rode the wind, swirling by the thousands.

I walked on and listened. Snowflakes are so small, it seems impossible that one could make a sound, but together, they make a soft, whispery chorus. 

In the distance, a passing train added a wistful chord.

Now and then a car passed and kind drivers asked if I wanted a ride home. 

"No, thank you. I'm good," I said.

I didn't have miles to go before I slept, just a few more blocks. But I'm glad I traveled by foot, and stopped, on that snowy evening.

----

A few months ago I joined the choir at church, quite a brain-expanding experience. Our choir director recently brought in some poetry recordings for us to listen to, including Robert Frost reading "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." 

It's clear I was inspired.

Let there be light.

They say God spoke those words at the dawn of time, and ever since the first fires cast shadows on cave walls, we humans have looked for ways to banish the dark.

Darkness can be hard to handle, whether it's the long nights of winter or the murky depths of sorrow.

It's no wonder we include light in our winter celebrations. We light candles during Hanukkah, swoop strands of lights at Christmas, shoot fireworks as the New Year begins.

I was happy to turn the page to 2013, leaving behind a year of too many goodbyes, beginning with the death of my father in January. Loss is part of life, I know, and the losses of 2012 hit hard, but they also reminded me of how blessed I am, to be here, and to have loved -- and still love -- those who are gone.

That's the light I hold onto amid the darkness.

On New Year's Eve Eve, my husband and I went out to dinner with two dear friends (a more than momentary joy). Afterward we drove around the neighborhood in search of noteworthy Christmas light displays. My favorite was a free-form creation: five strands of icicle lights, streaming down from a treetop some 30 feet high. A light wind set the strands a'swaying.

From that simple setting we headed to a house in Glenside, whose owners take a decidedly different approach to holiday lighting. Their glow is visible blocks away, and features Santa, reindeer, polar bears, a seal balancing a ball on its nose, candy canes and a chugging train. All in rainbow lights, some of them flashing. I may even have seen a unicorn.

As one of our friends put it: "Pleasantly over-the-top." 

 House by house, those lights will soon disappear. In honor of my roots, I keep ours up until at least Ukrainian Christmas (which happens to be today) and usually beyond. I feel wistful as the lights go, leaving nights a little darker. Fortunately the sun is already giving us help, setting a bit later each day, offering a glimmer of the seasonal shift ahead.

I hold onto that light, too.

It seems I am a creature of hope.

Read the pages of any newspaper and it can be easy to lose hope, easy to think that this world will never change. Newtown. Aurora. Afghanistan. Syria. The heart of darkness beats on.

And yet.

I recently came across a quote from Amma, an Indian spiritual leader also known as "the hugging saint." Among her wise words are these:

"Don't be discouraged by your incapacity to dispel darkness from the world. Light your candle and step forward."

Let there be light?

It's up to us.

Little lights add up.