Spring Time - Text version

for those that would like to be able to actually read this without the fancy dogwood picture blocking it:

Spring Time in Missouri

As I sit at my desk, surrounded by blinking lights flashing green & blue amidst the sound of the whir of the computer fan, I also hear the sounds of the birds, singing outside my window.  It's the beginning of May in the state of Missouri, outside the grass is wet from early morning rain, the temperature is a pleasant 70° and the birds, well, the birds are singing and if I could sing the song of spring, so we I.  I've spent many seasons at different locations; winter in Germany, summer in Georgia, autumn in the Carolinas, and Spring in England, but for my money, if I could choose any place on Earth to spend the springtime, its right here in Missouri.

A long time ago, when I first purchased my home work station, I indulged the inner artist, and hoarder, and purchased a chiffarobe-style computer desk, complete with area for monitor and cubby holes to stuff my enveloped correspondence (yes, I still know people who actually take the time to physically write and mail letters), broken coffee cups filled with dried up ink pens, expired membership cards, compact discs, and clay pots made by my children in school art classes filled with paperclips, spare change, and random knickknacks.  Now, as I take a break from working on scouting projects, paintings, and writing, I sit looking at my computer screen and seeing only the dark, black of my work hutch.  I chose black as the color, because it has always fitted me better than white.  At my junior & senior prom in high school, I wore a white tuxedo because it was different, but since my own youthful rebellious nature has been replaced by a mature understanding of societal roles, I much preferred, artistically, to the black nature of humanity.  The darkness within each of us controls such a huge portion of our lives; the selfishness that forces us to use others in order to achieve our own, self-satisfying goals, the uncaring ability to look upon the suffering of others close to us and not help them because it would distract from our purpose, our dreams.  The darkness is all around us. 

But if I gaze just slightly to the left, I can see the bluish-white skies, the clouds blending with the sky and if I breathe deeply I can smell the rain and grass, and if I listen, I can hear the birds chirping, singing their songs of spring.  I force myself up from my desk, through the kitchen (where my usually sullen, strangely happy teenaged daughter, dressed in her pink CHS Women's Choir t-shirt, is foraging in the cabinets for an after school snack) and past my wife's computer work desk (where she is diligently working on her college master's degree application and accompanying paperwork) to the front door and open it.  I stand there, in the door frame with the outside storm door propped open by my hand, and gaze out.  The wind gently blows the too-tall blades of grass and the leaves on the trees on the edge of our yard.  I focus, momentarily, on the dusty, pollen-covered storm door screen and it takes me back to my childhood.  We would visit my grandparents here in Missouri and I would often look through the dusty, pollen-covered storm door screens at her house, and the house of my other relatives we would visit during the Easter holiday.  Springtime in Missouri reminds me of that time, the time before my preference in color changed from white to black, that simple time when the only things I had to worry about was making it back to grandma's yard by dark and not straying away from the limits; not crossing the street or going to the park without an older sibling.  When I think of spring, I think of springtime in Missouri and I smile.