Things forgotten and found

I found a small 5.5 oz jar of Marionberry jam in the back of the  refrigerator when I went hunting for the smell that told me something had been forgotten. There it was, next to a bag of rather slimy veggies that had migrated behind the eggs on the narrow shelf. These things happen when I am distracted with work and school and things that are immediate. So, the little jar of yet-to-be-consumed flavor must have settled into a corner of my brain. I woke, this morning, remembering June's morning air in the cabin, and the soft light that filtered through the back window. The musty pine and moss shadows in which the cabin sat which held me, curled in the sleeping bag, settled on me again, even though I am months and a continent away.

Another three inches of soft snow has fallen, this morning, on this winter's crusty landscape of snow and ice that layered itself, 6-weeks-deep, and holds us in her shell. I am cramped and trying to stretch, ready to peck and claw my way out. Remembering the Oregon mornings is actually helping me settle into this closing hurrah of winter. The tulips I am forcing have 4 inch leaves. The orchids by the landing window have swelling knobs on the old stems. The newness of what is yet to bloom smooths a new layer of awareness over what had been layered in ice. Like a memory acknowledged each day in my prayers, the special petition tightly folded in the offering bowl, a dull ache embraced and released, I return to the flavor of the jam - the forgotten gift - and savor its smooth brightness.