Wash Away

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When I was in Minnesota in the middle of April, winter was still in full force. Trees were bare, we drove through a blizzard, and I regretted not packing my down jacket. A month and a half later, here I am again, and the view could not be more different. 

I snapped the picture above just a few minutes ago. I'm sitting at the kitchen table at my parents' house, going through photos from the past few days and listening to Joe Purdy sing his   mellow tunes as rain showers come and go and birds hop around the patio outside, plucking at earthworms and the small bugs and seeds that were shaken loose in last night's thunderstorms.

I slept for eleven hours last night, the longest I have slept in weeks. My arms ache from the rock climbing adventure I spontaneously participated in yesterday, when I was running off the fumes of two hours' sleep and fresh off two short plane rides from Columbus to Chicago and then Chicago to Minneapolis. My family is gone, churning through their weekday routine, so I have the house to myself, and I feel so calm that it's almost scary, because calmness is not something I feel very often. The moisture and the neon green of my surroundings are rejuvenating my soul right now. There is so much life bursting everywhere that it's hard not to feel at least a little bit of hope. Things die, things come back to life. Seasons change, growth happens. The rain seems to be washing away a little of my cynicism, bit by bit. It's a good feeling.