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:

First Spring

-For K.

On the island where

everything is voluptuous where

the inside of a coconut

is called "meat." 

Where

svelte palms shake

their tresses

against a milky pink sky-

We rise at dawn & enter

the ocean.

The goosebumps, the sountrack of

breath-

the way the pull of tides

knocks us against one another-

The salt.

& like this on land as well.

So the days & nights run

together-

the color of the fish, their lips

an "o" of surprise-

turning onto their sides to

regard us hovering above-

& the riotous, provocative 

flowers-

The geckos, the cardinals, the lone butterfly

that was always at

my shoulder.

Until the days end, the ocean

gulping down

that warm, ripe sun.

It was almost too much

to contain, almost.

Every sense primed &

bursting.

Leaving the island

I did not want the old rules

to apply.

How fortunate to return to 

Spring. Our first

together. To part

but only

to another green.

And each softer somehow,

humbled by such pleasures.

You are back in your home where

the rush of the freeway

can sound like the sea. 

Where that mountain can appear

volcanic

in certain light.

I am back in my home

& I walk past

the low, scone-shaped rocks, wading

in pools of wild yellow

mustard or orange poppies.

I cannot smell the Plumeria but soon,

lilac.

Back to the rhythms 

that we know yet perhaps

altered now-

a frame of reference

more felt

than spoken.

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.

Poem In Your Pocket Day

Today is National Poetry In Your Pocket Day. I have chosen the 4th portion of beloved Frank O'Hara poem "Alma" which goes like this:


4
Onward to the West, “Where I came from,
where I’m going. Indian country.” Gold.
Oh say can you see Alma. The darling
of Them. All her friends were artists.
They alone have memories. They alone
love flowers. They alone give parties
and die. Poor Alma. They Alone
/She died,
and it was as if all the jewels in the world
had heaved a sigh. The seismograph
at Fordham University registered, for once,
a spiritual note. How like a sliver
in her own short fat muscular foot.
She loved the Western World, though
there are some who say she isn’t really dead.

1953

from Lunch Poems

I began my writing life as a poet, my first poem at age ten having something to do with moths. I think the first line was "There's moths a-plenty by my bedside now...." I recall also as a young thing looking at the Redbud trees starting to bloom in the neighborhood and writing: "Who knows if these/rows of trees/are really large curd/lavender/cottage cheese?"  I was so proud that it rhymed and was going for the look of the buds on the trees. That's still what I see when I look at a Redbud.

As a rounded peg in the square hole of Kansas Suburbia, I always took great solace during my stormy adolescence from those pleasing, small, transporting poetry books that City Lights put out. They were perfect, the size of a sandwich, and that too made them seem slightly subversive & outré. And man, I was hungry for outré.

On the ladder of writing genres, even though I write primarily fiction now, I have always placed poetry on the top rung. It speaks volumes that at the end of a particularly powerful poem at a reading, audience members emit a sound, something between a moan and a sigh and a whew and an oomph of surprise. I love that this low short guttural sound happens spontaneously and universally, as natural as breathing. I always feel moved to write after reading or hearing poetry. I still write poems myself, but it now it seems saved for the larger events in life: heartbreak, Spring, love, death, longing. When I need to express something and crystalize the verbiage, poetry is the means to get in touch with the essence of things. I admire the distillation and focus that requires.

I always recall what a fellow workshop attendee once said at the Napa Valley Writers Conference years ago. He was a poet and I was in the land of fiction. We got the chance to rub shoulders while waiting in line for a buffet lunch. I said:
"I always try to guess which ones here are the poets and which writers are in fiction."
"Well that's easy," he said.
"How so?"
"The fiction writers are talking about agents and the poets are talking about the food."