It’s still dark out as I write this–I see lights glimmering on the other side of the valley, but the snow-laden trees are still invisible. In daylight, the landscape is calendar-beautiful.
Maybe it’s the weather–lots of snow on the ground and more predicted for tomorrow–that has me thinking of spring. And of seeds and cycles. A time to sow, and a time to reap. One of the best things about being back in the northwest is the changing of the seasons; it reminds me that we mortals have cycles, too. Seasons of growth, seasons of waiting and working quietly and trusting.
This little part of the planet only seems dormant; I know all sorts of wonderful processes are going on under the ground, in the trunks and roots of trees and plants. And yet, like most people, I still yearn for blooming roses and fawns with spots, green and growing grass, the neighbor’s peacocks wandering past. I find waiting for spring–or anything else–to be a challenge.
It seems safe to say that we, like Mother Earth, must have our fallow times, if we would burst through the soil under some warm and future sun and unfurl our leaves, delicate at first, and then sturdy. We must be patient, and learn to honor our processes, methinks. Everything in Creation seems to have one–so why not people? Why not dreams?
