Spring, the Resurrection Time
James J. Kilpatrick
Springs are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon our Virginia hills in one prodigious leap – and all the stage is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.
In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. “I know you’re out there,” I cry. “Come in!” And April slips into our arms.
The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered seeds are nestled. One examines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner’s scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up – primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms – you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.
The dark Blue Ridge Mountains in which I dwell, great-hipped, big-breasted, slumber on the western sky. And then they stretch and gradually awaken. A warm wind, soft as a girl’s hair, moves sailboat clouds in gentle skies. The rains come – good rains to sleep by – and fields that were dun as oatmeal turn to pale green, then to kelly green.
All this reminds me of a theme that runs through my head like a line of music. Its message is profoundly simple, and profoundly mysterious also: Life goes on. That is all there is to it. Everything that is, was; and everything that is, will be.
I am a newspaperman, not a preacher. I am embarrassed to write of “God’s presence.” God is off my beat. But one afternoon I was walking across the yard and stopped to pick up an acorn-one acorn, nut brown, glossy, cool to the touch; the crested top was milled and knurled like the knob on a safe. There was nothing unique about it. Thousands littered the grass.
I could not tell you what Saul of Tarsus encountered on that famous road to Damascus when the light shone suddenly around him, but I know what he left. He was trembling, and filled with astonishment, and so was I that afternoon. The great chestnut oak that towered above me had sprung from such an insignificant thing as this; and the oak contained within itself the generating power to seed whole forests. All was locked in this tiny, ingenious safe – the mystery, the glory, the grand design.
The overwhelming moment passed, but it returns. Once in February we were down on the hillside pulling up briars and honeysuckle roots. I dug with my hands through rotted leaves and crumbling moldy bark. And behold: at the bottom of the dead, decaying mass a wild rhizome was raising a green, impertinent shaft toward the unseen winter sun. I am not saying I found Divine Revelation. What I found, I think, was a wild iris.
The iris was doing something more than surviving. It was growing, exactly according to plan, responding to rhythms and forces that were old before man was young. And it was drawing its life from the dead leaves of long-gone winters. I covered this unquenchable rhizome, patted it with a spade, and told it to be patient: spring would come.
And that is part of this same, unremarkable theme: spring does come. In the garden the rue anemones come marching out, bright as toy soldiers on their parapets of stone. The dogwoods float in casual clouds among the hills.
This is the Resurrection time. That which was dead, or so it seemed, has come to life again – the stiff branch, supple; the brown earth, green. This is the miracle: There is no death; there is in truth eternal life.
These are lofty themes for a newspaperman. I cover politics, not ontology. But it is not required that one be learned in metaphysics to contemplate a pea patch. A rudimentary mastery of a shovel will suffice. So, in the spring, we plunge shovels into the garden plot, turn under the dark compost, rake fine the crumbling clods, and press the inert seeds into orderly rows. These are the commonest routines. Who could find excitement here?
But look! The rain falls, and the sun warms, and something happens. It is the germination process. Germ of what? Germ of life, germ inexplicable, germ of wonder. The dry seed ruptures and the green leaf uncurls. Here is a message that transcends the rites of any church or creed or organized religion. I would challenge any doubting Thomas in my pea patch.
A year or so ago, succumbing to the lures of a garden catalogue, we went grandly into heather. Over the winter it looked as though the grand investment had become a grand disaster. Nothing in the garden seemed deader than the heather. But now the tips are emerald, and the plants are coronets for fairy queens.
Everywhere, spring brings the blessed reassurance that life goes on, that death is no more than a passing season. The plan never falters; the design never changes. It is all ordered. It has all been always ordered.
Look to the rue anemone, if you will, or to the pea patch, or to the stubborn weed that thrusts its shoulders through a city street. This is how it was, is now, and ever shall be, the world without end. In the serene certainty of spring recurring, who can fear the distant fall?
春
詹姆斯·J·凱爾帕特利克
春天并非總是一模一樣。四月，有時不知怎地一躍，就來到了弗吉尼亞的山坡上——轉眼到處生機勃勃。郁金香組成了大合唱，連翹構成了阿拉伯式圖案，洋李唱出了婉轉的歌聲。一夜之間，林木著裝，綠葉瑟瑟。
四月有時又躡手躡腳，像我的小孫女一樣，羞羞答答地倚在門外，避開視線，偷偷向里窺探，爾后又咯咯地笑著走進門廳。“我知道你在那兒藏著呢。”我喊道�！斑M來!”于是，春天便溜出進了我的懷抱。
山茱萸的蓓蕾，淡綠清雅，表面點綴著褐色斑痕，活像一只完美無缺的小杯，一撮撮種子，半隱半現(xiàn)地藏在里面。我敬畏地觀察著這蓓蕾，暗自發(fā)問：一個月之前，這些種子在什么地方呢?蘋果花開，展示出一片片染了玫瑰紅的象牙色薄綢。一切冬眠的東西都在蘇醒——美麗的櫻草花，纖細的蝴蝶花，還有藍色的草夾竹桃。大地開始變暖——這，你既可以嗅到，也可以觸摸到——抓起一把泥土，四月便揉碎在你的手心里了。
黛色的蘭嶺山，那是我居住的地方，它像臀豐乳高的女郎，依然安睡在浩瀚的天幕之下。后來，她終于伸開懶腰，慢慢醒來了。一陣陣和煦的風，像少女的柔發(fā)，將帆船似的云朵吹送到溫和的天空。下雨了——催人入睡的喜雨——像麥片粥一樣微暗的原野，起初淡綠素雅，繼而翠綠欲滴。
這使我想到一個話題，它像一首樂曲不斷縈繞在我的腦際，平淡無奇，卻又奧秘無窮：生命綿延不斷。一切一切都在于此。任何事物，現(xiàn)在如此，以往如此，將來也必定仍然如此。
我是一個新聞工作者，并不是傳道士。我決不會就“上帝的存在”而揮筆撰文，上帝不屬于我工作的范圍。一天下午，我在院里漫步，無意中停下來，拾起一顆橡子——那是一顆粟色的，光滑的，摸一摸涼涼爽爽的橡子。冠毛茸茸的頂部早已磨平，酷似保險箱的隆起球形旋鈕。它沒有絲毫出奇之處。成千上萬顆這樣的種子撒滿了草地。
我不知道塔瑟斯的保羅在通向大馬士革的大道上，突然被圣光包圍時看見了什么，但是我知道他的感覺如何。他大吃一驚，情不自禁地顫抖著;而那天下午，我也跟他一樣。高聳人云的橡樹拔地而起，它不正是從一顆如此這般微不足道的種子里進發(fā)出來的嗎?而橡樹本身蘊藏著的生殖力足以孕育出一片又一片的橡樹林。神秘的色彩，雄偉的氣魄，壯觀的形象，這一切一切，都封鎖在這只微小然而奇妙的保險箱內。
這種令人傾倒的時刻，逝去了還會再來。二月里的一天，我下山去拔石南和忍冬根。我把手伸進腐敗的枯葉和碎樹皮中去挖�？�，在這層毫無生氣的枯枝敗葉底下，一棵根莖正朝著那看不見的冬日，伸出一個干勁十足的綠芽來。我不想把這說成是神的啟示。我發(fā)現(xiàn)的大概不過是一棵野生的蝴蝶花罷了。
這株蝴蝶花決不僅僅是為了一己的生存而掙扎，它是在準確無誤地按照自然發(fā)展進程而生長著，它是在響應那比人類啟蒙時期還要古老的節(jié)奏與力量。它是在從久久逝去的冬日的片片枯葉中奮力掙得生命。于是，我把這只勢不可擋的幼芽重新埋好，再用鐵锨拍了拍，讓它稍安毋躁：春天一定會來的。
這個平凡主題又奏起了一章：春天來了�；▓@里蕓香銀蓮，花團錦簇，像一列列光彩熠熠的小鉛兵一樣，整齊地排列在石墻頭。山茱萸像無拘無束的云朵飄浮在山間。
這是萬物復蘇的時節(jié)。那些已經(jīng)死去、或貌似死去的東西都復活了——僵硬的枝條柔軟起來，暗褐的大地泛起了綠色。這便是奇跡之所在。這里沒有死亡，有的只是千真萬確的永恒的生命。
春天，我們用鐵鍬翻開園子里黑油油的沃土，打碎土塊，把地面平整好了，再把那些毫無生氣的豌豆種子成垅成行地播下去。這都是些平凡至極的勞作，這里有什么激情可言呢?
可是你瞧，雨下起來了。陽光也暖和起來了，接著，奇跡來了。這便是那萌芽的過程。什么樣的萌芽?生命的萌芽，神秘的萌芽，奇跡的萌芽。干癟的種子裂開了，卷曲的綠葉伸展了。這里包含著一種信息，它勝過任何教會的儀式、任何教義、任何有組織的宗教。有誰不信，我的豌豆田可以打消他的懷疑。
春天處處帶來賞心悅目的復蘇景象，生命在繼續(xù)，死亡不過是一個早已逝去的季節(jié)而已。大然從不步履蹣跚，從不三心二意。一切都是有條不紊。一切一切，從來都是這么有條不紊。
如果愿意，你就去看一看吧!看一看蕓香銀蓮，看一看萋萋芳草，看一看無邊的豌豆田，尤其是那萋萋芳草，早已甩開臂膀，穿過市街。這便是世界何以無止境的原因。過去如此，現(xiàn)在如此，將來也永遠如此。春回大地，此時此刻，又有誰還懼怕那遙遠的秋天呢?
(宋德利 譯)
