A Drip, A Scratch, an Open Door

Our garage door opener has had a mind of its own in recent days, opening randomly and inconveniently; through the night; while we are out running errands; tempting fate -- or worse.  Sometimes it balks, opening part-way on occasion, before thinking better of its progress and returning to close.  Perhaps it is for the first time in weeks it is actually feeling the electrical impulses through its circuits and wires and, enjoying the remembered experience, can’t get enough.

I understand the sensation, having forgotten how warm 23-degrees could feel until compared with -18.  Even the icicles dangling from the eaves have been happily dripping with just the least encouragement from the sun, defying the still-freezing temperatures.  The chickens burst enthusiastically down the ramp this morning, skittering and fluttering around the spread straw, happy to stretch their wings and legs after weeks of lethargic huddling inside.  Sam, the rooster, made evident that he had a few more expansive things on his mind, too, as he chased the girls around the clearings.

The world is coming alive, it seems, moreso than merely waking.  As if for the first time in this New Year, it seems actually willing to make a fresh go of it after all; as if daringly considering possibilities after keeping hunkered down in the fetal position up until now just hoping to survive.  Indeed, for longer than I can quantify the entire universe has seemed clenched, braced for the next blow…

...from the weather…
…from the flu…
…from the politicians…
…from the vague “out there” for which we didn’t even have a name.

It has been cold in more ways than one — a bitter, paralyzing cold.

But the hens are foraging this morning instead of merely feeding.  Sam is crowing with renewed vigor. Ice is dripping.   The sun is shining.  A new week is commencing.

Maybe the garage door is simply trying to tell me something with its insistence on opening.

Like maybe I should, too.