A Slow Spring

We’re officially into spring, but outside my window says otherwise.

A winter storm swept through Wisconsin again, leaving piles of snow across my city. Trees and bushes, which have begun to bud (a beautiful sign in this long stretch of cold) are once again covered with white. Recent warm temperatures have teased us, now a disappointment in the 20+ degree drop practically overnight.

My internal landscape relates to the rise and fall of hope and disappointment all in one dance. I’ve been stretched thin and barren through a winter of wrestling in head and heart. I’ve been longing for spring to appear, for hope to bloom within. Coming off a difficult two-year physical and mental roller coaster, I’m longing for the life and growth of spring, sunshine in my mind, body, and spirit.

I take my puppy for a wet walk around the neighborhood, and in the break of construction work that’s been happening the last few weeks, I pay attention to what’s in-between the silence: birdsong.

Durable birds have made their way back north, expecting spring as well. Are they surprised by the storm that has come? Will they remain in what they weren’t prepared for?

The weather does not deter them; quite the opposite, they continue to call to one another from the trees, settle in for spring and summer, to a place they belong.

I, too, have traveled a long distance to come home—to come home to myself.

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Honored to have my essay at the Redbud Hyphen this week. Won’t you join me there to see how hope can still arrive even in a slow spring?