The literary charms of May
Words from Joan Didion, Emily Dickinson and Linda Pastan & the beauty of impermanence.
In Blue Nights Joan Didion writes, “You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming—in fact not at all a warming—yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise.” I tend to feel a shift at the beginning of each month, but May first felt different, as Joan described, something distinct but difficult to express. Did you feel this too? In a recent newsletter I shared a collection of images and poems that summarized the mood of April and early spring for me. I had such a fun time putting it all together that I decided I’d do the same for May.
Yesterday morning I came across May Day, a poem by Sara Teasdale. I read it while the rain puttered down, and as a cardinal sang outside my window. I’m sure I’ve read it before but it felt like the first time, and it was one of those moments I couldn’t have planned, the rain playing against the glass pane like fingers as I read:
For how can I be sure I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?
There was a mood, a spell I was under all day, from reading about Beltane traditions—bonfires, the Maypole, flowered crowns and fairy altars, how at this time (according to the ancient Celts) the veil between the spirit and physical world thins in the way that it does at Halloween, inviting fairies in place of the dead. The day was inflated with child-like wonder, and was capped with a walk around the neighbourhood with my boyfriend admiring the trees and gardens in bloom. We’re at the midway point between the spring equinox and summer solstice, the time I’ve been waiting for and dreaming of all winter.
Everything blooms in turn, like pageant queens making their way across a stage, waving delicately before turning their backs on their audience, diminishing into the shadows—first the magnolia, then the lilac, and somewhere in between, the lily of the valley, and so on. The patience and grace of each flower is a great lesson—a reminder that the seedling state, time underground in the dark, is necessary in order to bloom, that the final show is worth the wait (and in most cases, it’s never actually really final).
This time of year celebrates impermanence as much as it does growth: the molting ear of a magnolia petal as it hits the pavement, bruised brown from its time on the branch, is still somehow beautiful. A flattened hyacinth becomes a souvenir from a long-ago spring day when it’s discovered years later between the pressed pages of your favorite book. It’s true that, as much as we might desire, we can’t keep this beauty forever (Nature’s first green is gold, and of course Nothing gold can stay)—but remember the bird who inspired Sara Teasdale to write of its delicate fabric of bird song and the sweet breath of Linda Pastan’s mother’s favorite flower (the lavender lilac), how to this day it continues to drift through the open windows—our open windows. There are ways to immortalize the ephemeral, and what a strange and beautiful honor it is, to encounter a poet’s spring, to be afforded the chance to smell the perfume of memory.
Always a pleasure - never a chore!