I slammed the door to the trusty Volvo this morning in the same fashion as most mornings; in a rush because I am perpetually late, jittery and working on my second cup of coffee, flailing to untuck my hair from under the strap of my shoulder bag while simultaneously trying to clip on my keys and insert iPod earbuds. I walk in a hurried shuffle, the worn spots at the heels of all my shoes indicative of my aggressive heel to toe stride, the scuffed toes indicative of my absent-minded lumbering through mud, gravel, and any other ground cover paving a more expedient route than the sidewalk. Today I made it to the median on Cardinal Boulevard, still fumbling with trinkets and adjusting clothing extremities, and was nearly knocked sideways by a student shuttle that bid me farewell in a cloud of kicked-up dust and black smog. After a few hastened strides I recovered from an assailing lungful of debris, then suddenly stopped dead in my tracks, arrested by a fragrant Southern perfume. Literally, I stopped in the traffic lane, intoxicated by a familiar Spring pungency that sends my little heart leaping...
Onion Grass. God Bless.
A curious motorist had stopped before me, I being the barrier between he and a green light. He didn't look angry, he looked intrigued, maybe even sympathetic. I stood with a wide-eyed sugary grin, still unable to connect my sudden euphoria with the scent whistling beneath my nose. I offered an appreciative wave in the direction of the halted driver, which I can only imagine came across as the looney gesture of a dazed Kool-aid drinker.
Onion Grass.
If there is an Earthly representation of sunshine I think these thick, sticky blades must be the chosen ones. That scent evokes childhood memories of the stubborn family cat happily munching and regretfully regurgitating, grass stains on white tights that I didn't want to wash off, lightning bugs and humidity, red hot shoulders exposed by the sunroof, sunglasses and Easter Sundays past. I can feel myself soaring on the breeze that alerts my senses to knots of onion grass, in fact, there are probably a few patches adorning the hedges of my soul.
A full day of classes went by in an unusually painless sweep of time. Eager to spend a little time on the deck, I sped home at 5:15 with the sunroof back, already sinking mentally in to a sunshine, wine, and good book induced coma. Those fifteen minutes between me and outdoor serenity unfolded like a flipbook; stoplight, go, stoplight, go, park, door, bags down, glass, pour, book, backdoor, ahhhhhhh........
CHIVES!
Could it be? Realizing that I'd made a hasty exit to the deck without my sunglasses and water, I looked up from my book after just a few minutes of settling in, my gaze met by a family of lime green sprouts. This pot was in a line of six or seven left out all winter to brave and bear the burden of frost and snow. Each terra cotta vestibule shamefully displayed a dry straw-like smattering of dead stalks and leaves, but not this. I leaned over cautiously, reminding myself not to get too hopeful. My thumb and index finger closed around one of the blades and gave a twist to indicate texture and release aroma. A tiny hollow tube of bright green snapped off, daring me to take a whiff.
Chives.
Like a surprise birth announcement, the descendants of last year's modest crop pulled off a striking reveal with youthful enthusiasm in their stinky little lime green jackets. With maternal enthusiasm I ran in for the camera, twice forgetting the water and sunglasses.
There are reasons to celebrate every which way I turn during these warm months. Animals to speak to, blue skies to covet, twigs, branches, mosses, leaves, petals, flowers, and fungi with shapes and colors deserving of human marvel. Little ethereal encounters that bring me a little closer to a realized self.
