Having arrived with a roar, as we prepare to turn the page on the calendar, will March move on as meek as a lamb?
The thing about early spring--it stirs up hope as I poke around the garden looking for the tulip tips (hoping the deer didn't get there first). It fires up the blood and I feel like hiking through the woods. It is muddy and messy and dirty and chaotic. One day it is sweater weather and the next day it is snowing and the day after that I'm bundled up to face single digits and the day after that I'm turning down the furnace and throwing open the windows.
This stormy, drab, mucky month mirrors the transformation taking place deep within the earth of my own being. It’s messy in there. The debris that was hidden under the frozen places in my soul is exposed. It is muddy where I am thawing out. My heart is stormy and unsettled; one day dark and raging, another day brilliant skies blazing blue—then clouding up again by mid-afternoon.
I’ve never much cared for March. Nor have I ever moved through periods of transformation with much grace. Yesterday I stood up on the ridge overlooking the river valley, the harbor and the Lake. All this brown and grey unfolding below me, the only color the blue sky overhead and some dark green conifers scattered among the bare birches.
I sighed. How else can the green return? How else can the buds unfurl and the breezes shower apple blossoms on the ground? How else can there be tulips in April and lilacs in May and roses in June? We have to have the winter season when Life moves deep down inside to regenerate, to dream new things into being. But winter passes and it is time to wake up, to emerge from the caves and caverns where we retreated and once again bring life and beauty to the world. We thaw and we storm and we clear the debris, allowing the green to come.
My storming subsides to a gentle rain. I catch the drops with a tissue, retracing my steps for home. Nothing is wrong. It is only my sweet soul waking up.
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