Not all growth is seen immediately as those of us living in New England know, and when the warmth of the sun and air ignite us, we head outdoors with hope renewed after a long winter.
Weather serves as a metaphor for personal growth and the work it takes to do so, and most often what is under the surface takes its sweet time to feel nourished enough to emerge. Spring is my favorite season; in one warm moment it removes the drain of a grey winter, even if temporary.
Our springs are notoriously fickle. Hot one day, drizzly and freezing the next, while we shed our flannels too soon and fill our bodies with an unshakeable dampness we’re too stubborn to admit to. The flick of the air conditioner quickly turns to the hum of the furnace.
Oh, to see and feel spring invites such hope and wonder. I head outside while the dogs play, wandering around my yard like someone freshly touched down in a new world. Hugging our trees, I give gratitude they stayed through intense snow and storms. Winter claimed one victim, our old peach tree who had been dying for a decade it seems. The final branch broke, and yet she stands there still, feeding all the life within her and giving refuge to many.
I admire them so. The brook cascades by the house, making its bubbly way down to the remnants of the beaver pond. The birds sing joyfully, some seen, some not. I marvel at it all. Nature heals the soul, and even outside of spring, there are many elements to love all year round.
Wandering into the forest and around the moss patch, I see trout lilies reveal their beautiful mottled green and brown leaves. Research suggests it takes up to seven years for the single flower to bloom. In human time, taking seven years to achieve something to show for seems endless. Yet the lilies do not care if they are seen or not, emerging because the trees have no leaves, only buds, a word of honor of what is to come, and during this time the ephemerals bloom, taking full advantage.
What a fleeting feeling, but their presence is vital for soil health and early pollinators. Honestly, they are vital to mental health as well. The ephemerals are reminders that what is promised can feel hidden for a long time, but having faith and trust in the natural order of things, in that invisible system, the growth, the wait, the emergence, hinges on a trust of the Universe.
Trust. Building takes time and patience. Having been in a state of the whimsical and terrifying unknown for some time now, I can count on the writing, the investment in creativity, and knowing something is at work underneath it all. Like the dandelion breaking through whatever is in the way, there is no blaming of the concrete or stones, it’s a quiet emergence without fanfare. It is enough.
Taking on the world of “spiritual art” (not sure if I made that up; kindly let me know:) is not for the faint of heart. Since 2018, I’ve shared my writing in blog form for fun, for expression, for the creative spirit of it all. Eight years – bananas! And throughout this time, I published a book with an actual publisher (had some serious snafus, so I republished myself); published a second book about beavers – so fun; have another book at 85k words written; finished a teaching career and now have a MEd and 50 graduate credits for . . . not so sure; wiped the old website clean, and now sharing in a kind of new way, but still the same old me with a BIG + sign 🙂
The plus is the creation of a pen name (my latest work is under her name) and some really great services I’m hoping to grow in whatever capacity they wish to grow, and much like the seven years the trout lily waits for her bloom, I’m learning how to have faith in mine. Those closest stand by to help when I lose my faith and deflate the energy from myself like an “uprooted weed in the sun,” to quote Nathaniel Hawthorne when he describes Chillingworth’s decay in The Scarlet Letter. Chillingworth is one of my favorite characters of all time – don’t get me going on his dynamism!
And maybe when we return to pencil and paper, I’ll return to the classroom – faith, right? But in the meantime, that childlike wonder and creativity bring me back from the edge along with the voices of those who love me, the wagging tales of our dogs, the signing sparrow outside my door every single morning. And I thank her. I thank her for calling me back from the hardest parts of myself.
Just like our spring here, the ins and outs of discovering who you are after what you built yourself upon falls away is not for the faint of heart. What choice is there? The best choices stem from love, and like my friend Chillingworth when his one goal dies before his weary eyes, perhaps we can see his character as salvageable when he leaves his fortune to a daughter who was never his – I digress, but there is such an important point here. It’s the recovery. It’s the restoration, the rebuild.
What are we left with when our point to prove is proven? I’m finding this out now, and I will grow my patience and sense of presence through sharing creativity to a world that may or may not care, but nonetheless the heart beats on.
I will not remain uprooted, but I will replant in new soil, fresh full of dreams and a growing worthiness, with or without an audience. Let the path be gifted with angelic sparkles of hope, lighting the way as we face those parts of us calling back for help – I hear them, and I am unafraid.
Be well 💕🌿
