cherry season

I had the first cherries of the season this afternoon and thought about how lovely it is that in each year there are a million rebirths. In Jewish culture there is a blessing called the Shehecheyanu that is recited before doing something for the first time in a long time. “Blessed are You Eternal Spirit,” the prayer says, “who has given us life, sustained us and allowed us to arrive in this moment.” I can’t stop thinking about it. There is, of course, something spiritual about the season’s first bowl of cherries or the anticipation of returning to a place you haven’t been in years.

I almost bought a plane ticket to Germany on Monday because the borders are finally open (for now) and my brother and I are the only Tiews left in the US and also I am acutely aware of the fragility of life. For thirty-six hours I wrestled, trying to decide if the risk and the hassle were worth it. I even made a pros and cons list which wasn’t helpful at all because for each positive there was a fat negative: three weeks with my grandparents / the possibility of the borders closing again; returning to the place of my childhood / leaving my husband alone to move. My responsibilities here eventually won out. I know I’ve made the right choice but it’s still so melancholy to walk through lush neighborhoods and catch a whiff of something that hurtles me back to Telgte. Is there a word for being desperate to be in one place but knowing that your duties lie in another? 
(yes, it’s just called being an adult)

But there are still plenty other rebirths to be celebrated. I got a membership to the botanic gardens a few blocks down the street, mostly so I can come and sit in stillness whenever I want. Every time I visit there is a new cycle beginning—irises to peonies to foxtail lilies. The Japanese gardens are my favorite, with trees meticulously trained to grow in an orderly manner and ponds dyed black to give the illusion that they are bottomless. I also have a penchant for a bench that sits on a hill above the irises and peonies; the path is quite steep and surrounded by enormous lilac bushes and when you are up there no one can really see you. You can’t hide out for too long there, though, because it is other people’s favorite spot too, and they will inevitably keep walking slowly past until you reluctantly let someone else have a turn.

Sometimes in the morning I bike to the park to drink my coffee and the soft dappled air is a rebirth too. I do variations of the same thing everyday but I don’t really mind; relaxation has returned in a way it hasn’t for a long time. Words feel inadequate—I wish I were a mourning dove or a cricket so that by my mere presence I could express gratitude. The question is: how do I make room for more?