It’ll soon be a month since I moved from Manhattan to my son’s home in upstate New York in an attempt to avoid contracting the coronavirus. It’s been cold and rainy almost every one of those thirty days. Today, I awoke to a forecast for more of the same, but the day turned out to be sunny, and amazingly the temperature that had hovered around forty day after day reached sixty!
Knowing how cooped up I’ve felt after all these dreary days, my son offered to take me for a spin in the car. Upstate New York is beautiful. In large fields, edged by decades-old trees, the grass is just beginning to turn green. Chartreuse-hued furls of a weeping willow’s new leaves contrasted with the dull gray siding of an old barn. Then, after a quick turn, we entered a pine forest with a brook. As it tumbled over rocks down the steep slope, its music sounded like a multitude of flutes playing in harmony. This brought back warm memories of mountain hiking with my husband and our sons years ago.
I thought the moment couldn’t get any better when I spotted little dashes of yellow along the road. Coltsfoot blossoms had pushed their way up through the thick carpet of dead leaves. Soon a multi-colored progression of wildflowers will follow.
Back at the house, I worried about my friends who’d remained in the city, called my family, and wrote a little.
As twilight neared, I sat on the deck of my son’s home, breathing in the evening air, and looking out at the pond while I listened to Beethoven, that genius of music, on my cell phone. In the piece, “Septet in E-Flat Major,” minutes of soothing string arioso were interspersed with abrupt snatches of horn statement. To me it seemed as though the composer was telling us, the listeners, to stop being complacent, and to instead appreciate what we have.
Dark clouds rolled in. During the time I’ve been here I’ve learned to differentiate between the dull banks of rain clouds and these dramatic tumbles of gray and purple with their long slices of pink and yellow with the sun’s rays peeking through, whose only purpose--it would seem--is to make an already beautiful landscape even more breathtaking.
As sundown grew closer, spring peepers, a small frog about the size of a paper clip, belonging to a species noted for its raspy trill (and apparently abundant near this pond) began its chorus, accompanying the orchestra. The composition became a concerto when a male turkey added his rapid gurgling tenor, a bullfrog gave one sharp call, and warblers added counterpoint. And, could that be a meadowlark?
Listening to this incredible man-created and natural-world collaboration, I realized that the coronavirus pandemic will do nothing to slow Nature and the advancement of Spring. And I gained new hope that humanity’s genius will carry us through this scary time.