Joselin swung back and forth on her porch swing and stared into the vastness of the dreary and desolate countryside. Inside, her heart wept, as the weeping cherry tree with the naked branches wept in her front yard.
Her marriage to Ken was wildly wonderful. She believed her love for him would withstand the windstorms of life. When they got engaged, she had pictured a bright little bungalow, with red begonias growing in a window box. It would be located near the center of town, where she could walk to the stores, the theater and the gym.
Ken’s wedding present to her was this-an old rundown farmhouse with a sagging roof, falling shutters and peeling paint. She had never lived in the country and she found it overwhelming.
Of course, Ken loved it, but he was hardly home. When he was home, he went on and on about how he loved waking to the sound of tweeting birds and going to sleep to croaking frogs. Both were ceaseless chatter to Joselin. Noises that kept her up late and made her rise early. Her days were filled with dirty dishes, dirty laundry and a dirty enclave.
Time passed slowly, and Joselin grew more and more depressed. She hid it from Ken, but she couldn’t hide it from herself. She recognized the signs – listlessness, mood swings, tiredness and a lack luster attitude -but, she didn’t know what to do about her feelings of dejection and her difficulty in thinking.
Unannounced, Ken busted through the faded, age-streaked door late in the evening. A big grin spread across his face, and he sang, “Spring is in the air. Can you feel it?”
“How do you know, do you have spring fever?” Joselin reflected. The smile on his face and spring in his step, lifted her spirits, just a bit.
Ken wrapped his arms around her and asked, “Do you love me? Are you unhappy with me?”
Joselin drew back; this was her opportunity to tell Ken how she really felt. But she couldn’t because she didn’t know how she felt. She looked deep into his eyes and whispered, “I love you.” When she figured out her feelings, she’d share them with Ken, until then she’d pretend to be happy.
When she woke the next morning, Ken was already gone. She carefully carried her cup of steaming coffee to the front porch swing. This had become her favorite spot to meditate, to think and to sulk. The sun had risen over the ridge, and she noticed something different. The battered vine that grew on the old elm tree had come alive and bestowed bright orange flowers sprinkled throughout the green foliage.
She meditated on the blossoms; somehow she knew the plant was called Trumpet Vine. The snappy orange color, and the fun trumpet shapes, triggered a happy response in her brain. And then, she saw a spectacle she’d never seen in the city. A tiny bird, not much bigger than a large flying bug, zipped around the Trumpet Vine. The bird plunged it’s long, narrow beak into one of the flowers and then zoomed off into the wild blue yonder.
Joselin swung and waited for the bird to return. She found herself humming as she waited.