Detritus

Di TRI tes  Not a word I use regularly, but every now and then it pops up in my thinking. This afternoon it did, as I was raking dead plant matter from the ground covers and shrubbery that encircle my back yard. The bright green starts of sweet woodruff and the day lily stubbins breathed more deeply, I thought, and the upper reaches of the lilac roots had their first glimpse of sunlight since the broken leaves of November crammed themselves down like napping pillows in the corner of the couch.

Loose bits of stuff created from the decay of other things.  Disintegrated parts.  That’s detritus.  It’s the particular bend in the circle of life that allows newness to be fed and to blossom.

A friend is rounding the corner eight weeks after a systemic bacterial infection took him to the brink of death.  He lost his left arm and segments of his skin died away.  After keeping him sedated in intensive care, urging his organs to return to full function and grafting newness onto the parts of his flesh that had died, this week the medical team has just given him clearance to begin rehabilitation and move up to a new room.  To work at talking again, standing, strengthening the muscles that had been kept quiet while the medical magic, and the celestial miracle, were taking place.  Today he is up, with fire and light, ready for a new season.

Detritus.  Not all raked away, but remnant feeding the vigor and the color and the life-breath of spring.

Hallelujah!

muscari