T.S. Eliot wrote in his epic poem, “The Waste Land,”
‘April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land,
Mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain...’
Of course, most of us college English majors had no idea what the rest of the poem meant with its incomprehensible language and childish references, but we did know it was long and it was required reading. It almost always kept us from that weekend party - almost, but not quite.
April doesn’t have to be cruel, and it doesn’t have to be filled with bleak images. But we do know that the month of April is meant to be a transition and a renewal. Somehow things are out of alignment.
It’s as if the stars and the planets don’t quite line up in a logical pattern. It’s off center, like an abundance of circumstances in our lives.
One day, yellow daffodils with red hair in the center of their meringue spokes poke their heads out of the tired winter soil, giving us hope and smiles as they cluster around in friendship and revel in the warm temperatures and brilliant sun.
The next day, Mother Nature pulls a fast one and plunges the temperatures and paints a gray, dreary sky, so the daffodils are forced to shiver in sweaters and scarves.
Sometimes, as happened in the northern states, the early flowers wear white skirts of snow.
Yes, spring is here - supposedly. And April with its transition will mimic life. You bounce off the walls with joy, happy and content. Before you know it, you are traversing the narrow path of anxiety, treacherous with its land mines of confusion and uncertainty.
Nothing stays level. It’s April. It’s spring.
And so we look to the earth. We dig, we sow, we plant and we refurbish. We cover up that worn-looking rug of a garden with fresh mulch, hoping the nutrients will push it along. We prune dead limbs, giving new life to the young branches that find room to spread their leaves. Occasionally we find that abandoned nest; we shake our head, glad the occupants found shelter through the winter and confident they will be back. It’s April; it’s supposed to be transitioning anyway.
And you don’t need a large garden to renew your soul for the spring. A simple plant on the windowsill, sunning itself like a contented cat will do. A forgotten pot left outside, enduring the harsh cold, might yield a viridian green shoot that somehow overcame the winter cold. It’s April; it’s spring. Be senseless; beat the odds. Anything can and will happen.
But while you are tending your own garden and renewal, remember those who cannot participate for themselves. They have gone on to a brighter place, but we have not forgotten.
If you see that tattered American flag fluttering in the wind of a graveyard off to the side of the road, replace it with new, for we haven’t forgotten. All those veterans’ resting places need to look fresh, because we will always care.
The same is true of statues and stones. Plant and adorn the remembrances of those who either sacrificed or simply are no longer with us, in yellows, pinks, reds and purples. Don’t give in to morose colors and beige comments. Be one with April; be in transition with renewal. For after April comes our glorious May.
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Nancy Katz has a degree in creative writing and is the author of the book, "Notes from the Beach." She has written the column Around Town for the Cape Gazette for twenty years. Her style is satirical and deals with all aspects of living in a resort area on Delmarva.
