Spring is greening up New England. My hydrangeas, sedum, and clematis already boast cascades of tiny heart-shaped leaves. The campanula is spreading. Some afternoons, it’s warm enough to open windows, and soon we'll be eating dinner outside.
Filled with hope, I am motivated to finish or abandon stale projects. Spring is no time for dead weight.
Each Spring offers me a burst of optimism. This Spring is a notable one, probably because winter felt painfully cold, bleak, and dark. November 4th ended in a ray of warmth; but, of course, after election night, the old garde would still be in office and on the airwaves until nearly Spring.
So here it is—Spring, with all its fresh renewal....
...and its melancholy reminder that everything changes: Winter dissolves into Spring, and burns into glorious, ripe Summer. Autumn comes in with crisp drama, and then takes a sharp turn. Out of silent frozen Winter comes hopeful Spring again.
• There would be no Spring renewal without a bleak mid Winter.
• There would no renewed gratitude without hardship.
• Gorgeous, transcendent songs about death and loss resonate with everyone, because we all sustain losses--and because we all also have moments of birth and abundance, too.
• Giddy Romantic love would be less dramatic without the foil of heartbreak.
Seasons, flower blooms, projects, and lives all come to a close. Paying close attention to beginnings—and renewal points—affords a reason to sing (like the peepers) and suggests tools for metamorphasis. Like frogs, we humans are adaptable. We can figure things out and evolve as we go along, if we pay special attention to patterns.
This year I marked the beginning of a new cycle (a shift from admin work to creative projects)—and I commemorated the end of life for loved ones who have died in the Spring—by planting a Serviceberry tree. Already, the birds are frolicking in the limbs, still waiting to leaf out. The birds are paying attention, and they are singing.