More Meadow Moods – Our Blue Boat

“To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter… to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird’s nest or a wildflower in spring — these are some of the rewards of the simple life.”
John Burroughs

Five months ago, I shared the joys of my summer, fall, and winter wanderings along a path that winds through the meadow near my home in the Western North Carolina mountains (see Meadow Moods). When I wrote that post, I hadn’t yet experienced the magic of spring in the meadow, when Nature comes to life and totally outdoes herself with dynamic displays of color, variety, and vitality.

So, it’s time for a mountain meadow update!

The month of May has brought daily delights—dandelion blossoms turned to white puff balls, then intermingled with shy violets, frilly Erigeron, and buttercups galore. My six-year-old grandson and I have picked tiny bouquets for bud sized vases; we’ve added fluffy spheres and blooms to a tangle of fairy lights inside a Mason jar lantern.

The newly greened grass is now painted with generous swaths of yellow wildflowers. Upon closer inspection, there must be half a dozen varieties—lemon yellow to bright gold—blossoming within the crowd. Reaching above my knees, their tender stalks sway gracefully in the warm breeze while busy bees produce a steady hum.

Lately, I’ve been walking in the meadow after dinner, often waiting until temperatures cool and daylight turns to dusk. The energy is distinctly different as an end-of-day calm settles. Wildflowers begin to slowly close their petals for sleep. Looking up, I see the moon rising in the night sky; looking down, I see constellations of starry-eyed clover in the dark grass underfoot.

The best part is, at this hour, I rarely encounter other walkers—what a gift to have this rich, natural expanse all to myself. But of course, I’m not completely alone. Birds sing to the changing light from overhead trees that line the French Broad River. And I occasionally hear a rustle or two from the weeds and brambles as meadow-dwellers prepare for their evening rest or recreation.

I breathe more deeply, more fully. I sense that the meadow and I are one, and I am grateful.