May One

The first of May is somewhat of a big deal to me.

Growing up, on the first of May I dropped paper baskets full of dandelions on our doorstep, and every so often as an adult send May baskets to friends. One year I made a May pole in my basement.  I consider it the start of my favorite month of flowers and celebrations. 

The first of May marks the beginning of Pediatric Stroke Awareness Month and I often alert folks to the Childrens' Hemiplegia and Stroke Association (chasa.org) and the fact that kids have strokes, too.

The first of May often coincides with the beginning of the end of the college school year (I'm giving a final tomorrow and one Friday, and graduation is Saturday!) and has become the time I catch up on phenology: I can usually report when the Mississippi Kites arrived (not yet!) and can compare flower seasonality because I post an image of big bouquet each year.

Things have felt odd this week.  It has been a gray and drizzly-- exceptionally spring-like and completely out of place for Western Oklahoma.  Monday I gave a final to one of the best group of students I have every had, with tears and thank-yous and graduation announcements exchanged at the end.  Meanwhile I'll be pleasantly surprised if all of the students make it to Friday's final in a similar-sized class.  My institution's fabulous Dean of Students, the woman who assured every student, parent of student, and faculty member, that she would help with their problems, and that she had chocolate in her office if she couldn't herself be of help, died.  I learned of her death yesterday through an awkward e-mail.  Later in the day I learned that the provost's father and Dianthus's PE teacher's husband died and that there are lots of roles needing filled during end-of-year stuff at our schools.

Given my renewed proclamation of my witchy nature and pagan tendencies (a quick "May Day" search of this blog will demonstrate that my love of May Day long precedes witch year), today I felt I needed a May basket, but I was thinking of death as I glumly walked through the wet grass looking for flowers. I picked the iris and bachelor buttons along the alley and peaking out of a kids' digging area overgrown with honeysuckle and vinca were giant fluffy peonies.  They are along a warm south facing wall in an area that isn't seen, so I didn't feel at all bad about picking them.

I found a real basket from a dear friend.  I gave myself a self-inflicted challenge of arranging them in the basket rather than in a vase. I lit the sun and moon candle from Carrie-Ann, my moonbeam (I was her sunshine) who died in September and suddenly we were all there: friends near and far, mother and grandmothers, witches, flowers; light, gray, dark, life, and death, sun and moon.  Spring Re-birth.
And because I'm a product of my time, I snapped a photo, blew out the candle, posted the picture on social media and rushed my sons to their evening activity. 

So May One feels a little more this year.  It reads like the start of some blessing for which I haven't had time to prepare an end:
May one look out for the birds that are bound to come through.
May one recognize that pink fluffiness is transient, but that doesn't make it any less real.
May one light the candles of friendship.
May one remember that death calls us all.
May one recall that just as winter comes, so does spring.
May one always have a colleague with chocolate in her office and may one be the bearer of chocolate when needed.

May one have a great May.