My Recurring Bouts of Spring Fever

Despite California's current and terrible drought, a smattering (or perhaps well-timed, if meager?) amount of rain has tricked the countryside into a state of greenness that makes this hiker catch her breath in wonder.  Other symptoms include dreaminess, spaciness, random euphoria, heightened sensitivity, and a burning desire to learn bird calls. Coupled with the unseasonably warm weather we've had in February, I think I can officially diagnose my condition as Early Onset Spring Fever. Here is a piece I wrote for The San Francisco Chronicle a while back on this condition....

I often joke with friends from other locales that Sonoma has two seasons: wet and dry. This straightforward system makes for some dramatic changes in our landscape, as it transforms the brown hills and the brittle beige stalks of wildflowers gone to seed in the dry months to miles of dazzling green. Such a verdant panorama can bring on the palpitations, delirium and zeal that are the first signs of spring fever. Other symptoms may include a certainty that everyone is flirting with you, an irresistible urge to wear chartreuse and/or hot pink, and frequent sighing. Let us take our cue from that old Herb Newman song as we attempt to unravel the mysteries of spring fever on several levels: a) the birds, b) and the bees, c) and the flowers d) and the trees. We will conclude with: the moon up above and a thing called "love." 

The birds 

I will admit to being more than a little envious of the female bird. In no other species will the males go to such lengths to dazzle and woo the females, and never is this more apparent than in the spring. It's as if the Goddess of Color had one glass of mead too many and drenched every male bird in colors so magnificent that any winged female would be a fool not to fall for him. Blue feet get bluer. Rosy beaks get rosier. Cranes just wanna dance! Feathers go beyond flamboyant into plumage that truly takes the breath away. Gular sacs on frigate birds puff out like a Valentine's balloon, so the fellow is literally wearing his heart on his sleeve. And the bowerbird from Down Under goes beyond a great set of pipes or a flashy costume, wowing potential mates with his nest-building prowess. This bird pours his heart and soul into the construction of mounds, luring the females in for a "visit," by actually decorating the structures with pods and flowers or shiny bits of foil, even "painting" the walls of the interiors with chewed up berries or pigments. What's not to like? And don't even get me started on epaulets! Is there anything as fetching as the liquid trill of the redwing blackbird munching on some exploded cattail or another, trying to look nonchalant but puffing out his scarlet epaulets with all his might so they catch the light just so for any female onlookers? Would that we flight-challenged creatures could learn from them all! 

The bees 

When I hear a soft buzzing somewhere off in the distance in March in Northern California, a shift occurs. My whole body relaxes and I am reassured that spring has arrived. There is no mistaking the whirr of a working bee for the dreaded cacophony of a leaf blower (have we somehow forgotten the virtues of a rake?) so I begin to search for the source of the sound. There, nosing around in the first delicate plum blossoms or taking advantage of a calendula that has jumped the gun, is a bee, gathering pollen and getting the fertilization ball rolling despite a bit of chill still in the air. The bee, for me, is a far superior harbinger of warmer and longer days than some seen or unseen shadow of any old groundhog. Long live the bee. 

The flowers 

Nothing says spring like flowers, in particular: bulbs. Maybe it's because they are planted as remarkable oniony things in the darkening days of fall and lie in wait under sodden ground all those months. Or maybe it is because they are the first to bloom when all else is bare. Or, perhaps I revere them because they come back year after year and multiply all by themselves and are not fussy, high-maintenance citizens of the garden. But mainly, I love the spring bulbs because so many of them smell so good. To call the soil in the North Bay where I live clay-ish is like calling cement firm. But the bulbs, when the world is, as e.e. cummings rhapsodized, "mud luscious and puddle wonderful," valiantly manage to push their green shoots through every single year, come flood or frost. Seeing that first narcissus traditionally brings on the first symptoms of spring fever in me, the flushed cheeks, the disdain for woolens that were welcome only a few days earlier. 

As early as January in California, the narcissus begin poking their green shoots of promise through the muddy puddles, followed by hyacinths, then daffodils, then anemone, then freesia, then ranunculus and last but certainly not least, the tulips. There is something reassuring about the consistency of this parade. I love following their procession, one ushering in the next, the slugs laying waste to the predecessors. There is also this orderly procession in the realm of wildflowers. After the first few rains, the fields near me fill with wild radish. Next, painting all the rows of earth between the vineyards a dazzling yellow, comes the wild mustard (planted there, rumor has it, because the flower imparts nitrogen to the soil, which is good for the grapes.) My dogs love to dig up the peppery roots and chomp them down, and I always imagine myself on our walks as a type of confident Euell Gibbons, able to survive, if necessary, for days in the wilds of Sonoma by knowing which of all those greens and roots that sprout each spring are edible. Mark that as another symptom of spring fever: sudden urge to graze. 

Is it wrong to have a favorite flower? Shouldn't they be like children where you love them all equally? After all, they are frivolous things of beauty, there exclusively and purely to delight the senses, and there are so few such things left in this world. And yet, I must confess that lilac is the favored one. Nothing can send me reeling back in time to a specific moment and experience as instantly as certain smells. This holds true for many people, so when they lean down to inhale the perfume of the lilac, you can almost see the wheels turning in their heads as past scenes flood their memories: "Grandma's Sunday breakfasts, the white pitcher she put lilacs in, the fresh strawberries," or "the house I grew up in, playing hide-and-seek behind the tall purple hedges" or "putting one behind my ear the first time I kissed my husband." Lilac wins the Most Evocative Scent of Spring distinction every time. And since it is, technically, a bush, this leads us handily into: 

The trees 

Trees go into a hullabaloo of fancy dressing in springtime. Eucalyptus acorns don their pastel hula skirts. Manzanita put on their dangly, pearly pink earrings. Acacia trees, with their abundance of yellow puffballs, enjoy a friendly rivalry with mustard as both aim to color the landscape in yellows. And once magnolias start boasting creamy pink blossoms the size of loving cups and plum trees begin to burst into romantic showers of pink or white, well by then, one can catch spring fever by simply walking down any street. 

Meanwhile, in the woods, chestnut and buckeye trees present their upright green buds like sleepwalkers holding candles as they move through the night. The word "bud" is usually accompanied by the adjective "tender" and therein lies the hopefulness of spring. Seeing all those tender buds on peach, plum and cherry, I can almost taste the fruits that will soon hang on every branch. 

The moon up above 

Moonlight exacerbates the condition of spring fever and makes poets of us all. There is some misinformation circulating that spring fever afflicts only those who can be considered romantics, but in truth, no one is immune to moonlight. Once the mockingbirds return and start inspiring awe at dusk, with their staggering repertoire, and all the white flowers, (you know who you are, jasmine) which smell stronger at night because, it is said, they need to be pollinated by moths, once they go into olfactory overdrive under the light of the moon, there is no use resisting. Even the logical and practical among us are lured by the moon, answering a sudden call to sit outdoors at cafes, wearing jackets if need be, if only to bask in its glow. Howling is optional. 

A thing called "love" 

Interesting that Newman chose to put the word "love" in quotes when writing his song, as if it is some fictional thing. Love, however elusive and enigmatic, is a huge part of spring fever, to the degree that Tennyson declared: "In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." After all, falling in love and spring fever share similar symptoms: inability to concentrate, sweaty palms, palpitations, irrational behavior. Is it my imagination or is every couple walking down the street holding hands, sweaty or not? If spring is all about lushness and rebirth, and the birds are flying around with nesting materials clutched dearly in their small talons, and the outdoors is so buzzy and pollen-filled that I feel woozy just inhaling and exhaling, then am I not already a goner? Every spring, I get to experience that falling-in-love feeling all over again. 

In fact, by the time you read this, many of you, too, will be showing the early symptoms of spring fever, as it is almost epidemic this time of year. No sick days are allotted at the office for the condition, no downtime granted to take off the shoes and wiggle one's toes in the new grass. There are no inoculations against it though it is highly contagious. Yet spring fever is the one condition most of us are more than ready to catch. 

New Poem & Year's End Musings

Is the California drought over? Judging from the greening of the hills, the hopeful sight of bulbs poking through the soil, and reports that this last bout of storms brought nine inches of rain in 24 hours (!) I would venture that this has certainly made a dent in the harrowing lack of water in our state. It feels like a true Northern California Winter's day here today, a week from Solstice, the soupy grey light a sharp contrast to the dazzling green fields, the crystalline beads of water clinging to the tips of every branch and leaf and bough, . We have not had a hard freeze here in The North Bay yet, so some soggy flowers persevere. A good writing day, short on light, big on quietude. It is a glad sight and makes it truly feel like the holidays, the end of a very full and varied year.....that and my annual Wreath-making pre-mega-storm yesterday. Wishing everyone a Yule season with much to appreciate, brightness, and a healthy, joyous 2015. I am never sure who actually reads these blogs, but every writer is told to "amp up the social media," so I contribute to this page from time to time. Often, with poetry, as in the following I wrote just now:

Fern Lake

Witnessing Fern Lake 

recede 

these many dry months has hurt

my eyes.

I watched 

on each outing as

it went from 

healthy oasis, antidote to

the brown hills-

The electric cackle of a Kingfisher

as it zeroed in on a fish, dives-

& amorous duets of Mallards as they sleekly parted

its surface,

the “V’s” of their wakes forming

a second set of wings,

to a mere puddle as if someone

had pulled a plug, leaving 

gaunt Egrets and angular Herons to stab

at the muddy banks

in vain.

Now it is two weeks before Yule & 

the rains, at last, are back.

From my perch/my porch

the persimmons become ornaments

glossy orange 

against the wet, black, bark.

The birds here, closer

to Home

are giddy, shivering

with delight

in new pools.

And the pomegranates 

split wide, their

gory jewels exposed

Gape at the

drenched reveling

open-jawed,

another glistening

offering.

Musings From The Back Porch….

My back porch is the power spot, or as they say in Sedona, the "vortex," of my property. It is there, sipping a bowl of tea with milk and honey, binoculars within reach, that I do some of my best thinking and get many ideas for stories. I am out there in all seasons, hence have tried to make the surroundings a magnet, a haven for bird and beast. My panorama includes a fence that badly needs repair, sagging under the weight of dense and randomly intertwined Trumpetvine, Honeysuckle, and Jasmine. A bluebird box with three hatchlings peeping to be fed is next door to a Bat Box that I am hoping will draw some takers this year. Hollyhock, started from the seeds I brought back from Santa Fe, grows extraordinarily tall in its more cushy, non-desert home. Volunteer sunflowers are sprouting up hither and thither bellow the bird feeders, and Goldfinches, impatient for the heads to turn to seed, simply begin munching on their leaves.

Today, on the back porch, I was appreciating how lucky I am to be a part of the tribe of Artists, to have felt that kinship with poets, dancers, painters, novelists, musicians, the whole bohemian parade, since childhood,  that need to tell a story, to write it all down, to express. It is often lonely business full of self-doubt, this work, and just to know there is a community out there struggling in the same way is a balm. Call me elitist, but I do not think everyone and his or her Aunt Sally "has a book in them." I do not think my friend's twelve year old son or daughter "does paintings that are just as good as Picasso

." I still believe artists are special, that one does not suddenly just "decide" to be one.  How much of the end product is the result of discipline and application and how much just innate talent is an ongoing debate, as is the odd equation of success. But I believe it boils down to: NOT doing it, not creating/expressing/dancing/playing/carving/welding/painting/acting is simply not an option.

I was thinking about which of the five senses the artist in each given field needs to hone. Some are obvious: the Musician: hearing. Painter: sight. Or maybe not. I think the interesting work takes place where the senses overlap. The writer needs a hefty does of empathy. Perhaps empathy should be the sixth sense: being able to imagine what a totally fictionalized character would eat/wear/feel.  How he or she would speak. What their bedroom would look like. What secrets they hold. It is ironic that writing is such a solitary pursuit, when people-watching and eavesdropping are such helpful components to the task. I empathize to a ridiculous degree, helpful in the literary world, but what may be seen in modern parlance as "boundary issues." I have to turn away from newspaper articles that show atrocities, be they  starving children, mutilated elephants, animals in a factory farms. The anguish lodges in my brain and heart for too long and I have a hard time shaking it.

But the up side of empathy takes place on the back porch. If I eat a melon, I make sure to step outside and scoop the seeds onto the ground. I take much delight in watching a towhee hop up to those strange and delicious seeds and taste one for the first time. Maybe a little part of me becomes that small bird, for  just an instant, experiencing something as wonderful as a new flavor. Maybe it is as Picasso himself once said:
"Everything you can imagine, is real."

Autumn 10/26/2013

I have not added to this blog in a ridiculous amount of time, but not because of idleness. In truth, I would rather be working on my new novel, or a new story than on my little blog.  And yes, I am the first to admit that the jury is still out in my mind as to the value of social media for authors. But more than that: time feels sped up. It is early morning and there are the rituals there, the yoga and the walking of the dogs & the writing & the pruning of the suckers on the olive tree, then in no time, as if in those old films where there is a full-screen shot of a timepiece whose hands are wildly moving clockwise,  it is suddenly 3 p.m.! Perhaps I am not alone in this phenomenon? But when life gets juicy, with highs or with lows, I am always drawn back to poetry. I find it to be the most immediate and arrow-to-the-heart form of expression in words. Here then, a freshly minted poem:

Falling

By: Jill Koenigsdorf

And so it begins-

the cracking open & path

clearing-

Your eyelash found,

a fine sickle, dark

against the surface

of a new stick of butter.

The sawdust you made first,

then the ashes.

Spring has the reputation

as the time of awakening-

                         rebirth

But I say it is Autumn.

So much urgency-

a quickening before

the journey inward.

The earnest impossibility

of preparedness.

Squirrels bury the neighbor’s walnuts

in every pot they find,

making a mess of what

was carefully smoothed &

patted down-

nudging aside old roots.

The last figs

dry

on the branch.

The last tomatoes

puckered

as the faces of old women, cling

to the vine.

The last, the last,

but also the sweetest.

And all the showiest flowers

a study in duality-

half in their vibrant, summer glory

the other half

brown & rich

with seeds.

They too long for surrender-

to close the distance between themselves &

the fertile soil below.

They lean forward-

teetering towards that contact-         

then

coming to rest there

where they await the rains

that will make them green

again.

SPRING! ...when the world is mud luscious and puddle wonderful etc.

Yesterday in Sonoma: record breaking high temperatures (we hear this so often now that sadly that phrase doesn't have the oomph it once had)> 78 degrees in mid-March! And it seems the great parade of bulbs and wildflowers has picked up tempo. On the trail today: Indian Warrior Fern Flower, jumbo forget-me-nots, Buttercups, Scotch Broom, Fawn Lilies, ancient gnarled plum trees in an abandoned orchard, stumps covered with lichen, branches lacy with white/pink blossoms. Saw my first Swallowtail butterfly of the season, and the air was humming with newly-hatched gnats. So early to see a garter snake and an alligator lizard sunning, plus the insidious, dreaded, rampant, greasy, deadly poison oak making all hikes in the woods a type of obstacle course.

The beasts and I hiked up to Fern Lake, where we encountered three lads in shorts bearing fishing rods. SUCH memories came rushing at me of my own years by Lake Lotawanna, in Missouri, up at dawn and donning my worm-and-fish-guts-stained orange bikini that I lived in from dawn til disk, all summer long.
I asked the lads "What do you catch here?" "Bass mostly," says they. And at that point I could have talked shop, asked: "Are you using spinners? Rubber worms? Live crickets?" But I just said: "Bass, yum!" and moved on, but not before taking a sidelong inventory of their tackle boxes.
Pleased to report that bait has not changed much over the decades, still decorative floaters and worms and feathered/hooked items, not at all reminiscent of the actual living creature.

The dogs almost pulled the leash out of my hands when a female wild turkey crossed our path, with the wattled, impressive Tom hot on her heels. The duck were flapping their wings on the lake's surface, the birds were trilling: everyone was trying to impress. Ah, courtship! We humans could learn something about effort from the feathered ones.

All I want to do these days is plant things. Something so satisfying about filling the little six-packs with soil, marking each compartment with a stick bearing the name of some special heirloom tomato, "Ace," "Princepe Borghese," "Black Cherokee," "Mr. Stripy,""Celebrity,"  and tamping down your tomato seeds, imagining a bountiful summer harvest. There is nothing like reaching your arm into a tomato vine you have started from seed, the little hairs on the vine rubbing your bare arm and leaving that acidic, green scent, plucking off a still warm from the sun tomato and eating it like an apple.

It isn't officially Spring for another week, but the lilacs have just started to flower and my pea vines have flat mini-pods emerging from the white flowers. Rebirth indeed.....