Tag Archives: spring

We Woke Up

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It’s not (technically) spring yet,
but the first warm days arrived this weekend,
and northerners weary with winter
woke up.

We trimmed shrubs and pulled weeds,
started lawn mowers and plunged trowels into the warming earth.
We went to parks all over town
with our kids and dogs and blankets and guitars,
and we sang and walked and let the sun massage vitamin D and peace into our faces.
We picked daffodils,
chose outdoor seating at coffee shops,
and skipped church.
Even the odd ones who don’t care for sunshine came stiffly out,
and antique cars shook off dust for the first drive of the year.

Love is in the air—turkeys strutting, people kissing, dogs sniffing, squirrels flirting.
The earth is pulsing alive and we feel the anticipation—
joy radiates from crocus blossoms and forsythia.
Hope again surprises us with its quiet turn from black-and-white to color—
paintbrush poised to anoint fields and forests and gardens with life.

As we bask in today
we take a collective deep breath; we’re okay.
The sun and soil are alive; all will be well.

April Depression

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Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
for the unwanted absurdities
that remind me of gold I have found
while underground.

Today the absurdity is my annual spring depression
—four Aprils in a row.
While leaves and buds expand, my world shrinks
—social anxiety, tears near the surface,
wanting more sleep, more food, more time alone.

A superficial gathering of resources will not work today.
Instead, I will sink like a submarine, slowly,
deep to treasures of a different kind,
treasures found on previous voyages through darkness:
my intrinsic wholeness and unshakeable goodness,
permission to feel without evaluating,
acceptance of a different capacity each day,
invitation to let my heart speak
and to hold its words gently.

I do not find sustenance by grasping
for sunlight at the surface,
but by accepting a descent into darkness,
knowing I will have the company
of my own kindness to myself,
a contentment in the discontent,
until my buoyancy returns
and I surface again.

April Snow

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April Snow

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for sudden snow,
sneaky guest arriving in the night,
subtle blanket laid over
surprised tulip leaves and
sunny yellow forsythia blossoms.

Blessed are You
for slow morning,
snow day—no school,
squiggling paths in the back yard where
sister used Papa’s tow strap to
skate little sister around on a sled.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for the inviting silence of snow,
sustenance for our rushing souls,
sheet-white brightness filling the world with light,
sacred substance inviting us to
settle in and enjoy one last white wonderland.
Spring is on its way.