The transition from winter to spring can sometimes be slow here in Western New York. Bare trees, bare earth, clouds, and a chill in the air that prevents the storage of mittens wears thin. The soul aches for color. But just when limits are reached and the lack of sunshine begins to call in the question of sanity, time tips the scales and sweetness slips in. Tiny blossoms burst through damp earth and reassure the soul monochromatic times are passing. Lavender is arriving. Yellow is arriving. Pink and white and fresh, spring green are arriving. And so it is with our lives. Just when we think we can handle no more, when the chaos and depression and colorless days have threatened to shut us down, sweetness slips in and carries us over the threshold to a new season. Often the sweetness is small, easily overlooked, barely visible in all the mud. But it comes. It comes. It comes. It comes. Look to the earth. Look to the sky. Look to the hands and smiles nearby. Spring comes. Outside and inside. It comes.
Monday, April 14, 2008
The Sweet Threshold Of Spring
The transition from winter to spring can sometimes be slow here in Western New York. Bare trees, bare earth, clouds, and a chill in the air that prevents the storage of mittens wears thin. The soul aches for color. But just when limits are reached and the lack of sunshine begins to call in the question of sanity, time tips the scales and sweetness slips in. Tiny blossoms burst through damp earth and reassure the soul monochromatic times are passing. Lavender is arriving. Yellow is arriving. Pink and white and fresh, spring green are arriving. And so it is with our lives. Just when we think we can handle no more, when the chaos and depression and colorless days have threatened to shut us down, sweetness slips in and carries us over the threshold to a new season. Often the sweetness is small, easily overlooked, barely visible in all the mud. But it comes. It comes. It comes. It comes. Look to the earth. Look to the sky. Look to the hands and smiles nearby. Spring comes. Outside and inside. It comes.
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It certainly is coming to your writing. As finely wrought as those blue flowers.
ReplyDeleteSo poetically put and ringing with truth. As a fellow western New Yorker, I went down on hand and knee to stare in the face of the lone crocus that appeared in my yard...and thanked it profusely for arriving! :)
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