bloom where you are planted

I learned that there had been many ice ages. That they came and went. I learned there were no mammals original to New Zealand. I learned that space was not just adrift with cold, flammable rocks. Here and there a creature was riding one, despite the Sufic spinning of the rock. The spores of lightless life were everywhere. I think I learned that. —A Gate at the Stairs



This one orange tulip popped up by way of reminder that DESPITE THE SNOW MASQUERADING AS APRIL SHOWERS THAT JUST FELL FOR A SECOND IN CHICAGO, spring is a sure and eventual thing. Despite a certain ambivalence due to a certain disorientation as of late, I just know that something good is going to happen. (Just saying it could even make it happen!)

Now's the time that we ("we" being Midwesterners who've, alas, outgrown winter) begin to see natural beauty return to the city but still have to look sort of selectively for it. Instead of flowers, I guess I could have also chosen, as totems of spring, the dirty Walgreens bags, fast food cups, or old issues of the Spanish daily Hoy Fin de Semana, strewn across yards. They're as emblematic of the season as anything. When the snow melts, we're suddenly reacquainted with yesterday's litter. (The receipt inside the Walgreens bag said November.)

Speaking of yesterdays, I just passed the five-year mark of being a Chicago resident. Moved here without a clue about this city and have stayed here—admittedly, much longer than I thought I would—obtaining clues. There's a lot more to it, I know, but like any long residency/winter, I suspect that I just need a bit of newness and busyness and at least one mini tulip to reorient. Dan said, "This city's what you make of it," which is something I clued into right away, but it's still good to be reminded by someone who's living proof.