I found this journal entry from March, 31, 1999. and, well, it seemed good. I was 24 years old.
I heard my first red-winged blackbird 2 weeks ago yesterday. Stopped me dead in my tracks, that familiar trill. The windows are open and I can hear the outside world. It’s a nice complement to the humming ceiling fan and the incessant ticking of our million and two clocks! The breezes aren’t as chilly anymore and the sun is positively toasty–not hot yet. The cold snap has broken, the world is thawing and I’m right there. My bones itch. It’s now an involuntary reaction to step out and gulp in as much of this spring as possible. The smells! Ah, God, Great Spirit, how I love the smells. How they melt together and flood your senses-your mind-with every possible happy memory of childhood, of innocent crushes, of winter’s end, lust, of purposeless meanderings. Anything that ever made you want to weep with joy for being alive.
The redbud trees bloomed, the only color of pink I could ever tolerate–and indeed became all-consuming. And then the dogwoods. I could never pass a single one of those beauties without stopping. Cedar Bluff called to us most loudly in the spring. Always armed with tea and backpacks, journals and playthings, we would wander the trails, climb the rocks and sit and dream and kiss and welcome the sun with laughter on our perch above the countryside. Heads thrown back, feet bare, legs dirty, eyes wide. Hiking was a key pasttime, but just walking anywhere was a good plan.
Night-time walks were something I savored in particular. Bloomington had a peaceful, friendly magic at night. A mysterious allure without any sense of fear. And warm air puffing about your face, tugging at your hair, added a sensual feel wrapping you in good spirits and adventurous moods. I was drawn to the night along with my own little band of merrymakers. The moon led us on like an angelic temptress, and we loved her.