Soaring Hopes

What is it in the air?  That scent of wet earth, that change in light and warmth, that lengthening of days, that springtime feeling that quickens the pulse, that vitality?  Dare I call it ‘hope’?

My definition: n. A kind of trust or confidence…but not necessarily about a specific future outcome.  It points to a relationship and carries a sense of intimacy.

Why today?  Because my son is coming to visit me for a few days.  My only son.  He’s about half my age now.  I remember writing a poem about this kind of surging feeling when he was about 7 years old.  “A brilliant day in April…” it began.  I saw him walking home from school, baseball glove on hand, tossing a ball in the air and lazily catching it while his white-blond hair sucked a sunbeam into his entire being.  What was I feeling?  Pride?  Joy?  Awe?  That womb-love from the Hebrew scriptures?  Yes.  Absolom, my son, my son.  Coming home to me.

Ah, progeny.  How we load that concept with cultural baggage.  What is the reality of this young man’s life?  That’s what I want to learn.  The economy sucks.  Student loans suck.  Losing your father sucks.  Growing up is difficult.  And the world is a wonderful place.

What can we make of this visit?  While I wait for it to unfold, I will make chili and a clean place for him to sleep.  And I know he’s bringing his fabulous camera.  It’s a place to start.

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