When my father lay dying in his hospital bed, I had to walk through a swarm of dragonflies to cross the parking lot. Every since, I have considered the dragonfly to be my father’s totem. I have a decorative dragonfly on my front porch, one in my side yard, and one, in the form of a coat hook, in my bedroom closet.

So when I walked through the park yesterday and saw several dragonflies soaring through the air – as unusual as that was, I smiled and said “Hello, Dad.” I saw them in the park again today and yet again just a block from my house as I made my way home. Someone, or something, was trying to get my attention.

Dragonflies, I learned later that day, are a symbol of transformation, of spiritual growth, and of resilience under difficult circumstances. Able to quickly change direction mid-flight, they represent adaptability. Gossamer-winged, they are a reminder to live in the moment. For those who are cut off from themselves and their surroundings, a dragonfly is a reminder that meaning and joy are found in deepening one’s connections.   For those who are disenchanted with the world, it is an invitation to “re-enchantment,” to enter into a sense of wonder at the miracles which lie all around us. To practice stillness, so that we might hear the whisper of passing tiny wings.

When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time in my grandmother’s sewing room.  I remember Betsy McCall paper dolls and musty books of wall paper samples. I remember learning to hand stitch a nine patch quilt square.

But what I remember most is the sound of her parlor clock. Standing two feet high, with brass relief trim decorating its wooden case and a sun burst pendulum in motion behind a glass front, its gentle ticking lulled us to sleep at night and its soft gong woke us at sunrise, in time to hear the mourning doves greet the day.

For most of the past twenty-six years, the clock has been still, something awry in its delicate works. For reasons I can’t explain, yesterday I picked up the key and wound first the time train on the right, and then the strike train on the left. I gave the pendulum a light push and to my surprise the clock started to tick. Its measured and steady beat kept time throughout the evening and met me in the morning.

As I sit here at the keyboard, more than a day later, I hear it yet. It is the sound of a comforting croon, of a reassuring murmur, of something long silent come back to life.

This morning I turned earth in my front garden bed and scattered seed from last year’s flower head harvest. Then I went for my matinal walk. The fresh air announced the arrival of spring.

Along the way, I found a host of hostas bedecked with the glittering jewels left by the overnight shower. I bent to look more closely and noticed that where the frond faced the rising sun directly, the water had begun to evaporate, flattening the luster of the leaf. It was only the growth that arched toward the shade that kept its iridescent beads of light.

Sometimes, to see beauty, we must look obliquely.

A grey and cold day, close to but not at freezing. I struggle in days without sun. I struggle still with the weight of a heart heavy with grief. Everywhere I look, I see only gray.

Except.

I pull up to an intersection. To my right, a former used car lot. A metal pipe runs its perimeter. A dull orange, it is the color of marmalade, of deep saffron, of a barn swallow’s throat.

On my walk this morning, I came across a weeping cedar tree, the tips of its branches at eye level. From every frond there hung a drop of rainwater. Backlit by the rising sun, the branches were aglitter like a jeweler’s showcase. As I stepped closer to observe how tightly each droplet clung to the ends of each leaf segment, a drop succumbed to the force of gravity and, letting loose its hold, dropped to earth.