i must be one of those people who needs things klonked over my head. and thus, the simple act of walking past my kitchen window yesterday took my breath away. a quick glance out the window set my eyeballs in direct gaze of what had been the straggly, misbehaving leathery-brown vines that snake along my garden fence.
only, the thing was, yesterday — just a day after the day before when i swear the straggles were mostly stripped naked, without more than a paint drop of green anywhere in sight — they had decided to erupt in a tapestry of sawtooth-edged leaves and cauliflower buds that come july or august will unfold into nodding white hydrangea heads.
that’s the thing about spring: it catches you unawares. it all but grabs you by the cheekbones, holds you in its clutches, and bellows in your face: “there is growth by the hour here, something beautiful is unfolding.”
and then the one-two punch: “pay attention. it could happen to you.”
yes, my wise old professor of a vine seemed to be telling me, even you. even after all these weeks and months of feeling about as fruitful as a stripped naked, leathery-skinned vine, even you might be growing just beneath the surface. perhaps not yet erupting into cauliflower-budded bloom, but keep the faith; there is rumbling, stretching, reaching for the depths and heights. even you, little pewter-haired flower, even you just might be unfolding by the month — if not the week or day (let us not set our growth expectations too high here…).
it’s why spring makes me dizzy.
it’s why, i think, God invented the season of promiscuous advancement and rambunctious take-your-breath-away-ness. because it comes after the long season of stillness, of winter’s deep-down stirrings, the ones that can’t be seen. and then, the very instant we’re at the end of our hope rope, the days when we’re sagging like nobody’s business, God decides to wallop us with undeniable, whirling-all-around magnificence.
the flocks of feathered things arrive as if a river, saturating sky and bough with their shots of color and their song. the trees practically poke us in the eye, with frilly, lacy shades of velvet green and white and caution yellow and lipstick pink, as if slathered with a paint brush. and then there’s the best-of-show for those who dare to bend their knees and crouch down low: there, just above the crust of earth, that’s where all the tenderest unfurlings are. that’s where fern literally unwinds from its tight-wad comma — or is it a question mark? it’s where the itty-bitty baby leaves first reach for sky. it’s where you might even spy a worm, drowsy from its long winter’s snooze, out and about for its first seasonal constitutional (if one can apply such a noun to a walk without legs), slithering in between the rising stems of daffodil and lily of the valley.
year after year, it happens: i fall deliriously in love with the opening-up hours and days and weeks of spring, the ones where the volume is dialed to blaring, so clogged-ear folk like me can’t help but catch the message, the one that beats a billboard along the side of the highway.
if it can happen to a bush, you might find yourself thinking, i suppose it could happen to plain old me. i suppose i too just might be unfurling in the tight spots deep within. i suppose i too could dare to believe that something bright and beautiful dwells deep down inside. and something gentle, too. and, like the magnolia or the hydrangea vine, if i dared to let it out, if i found the faith to strut my stuff, the stuff that God has tucked there for a certain purpose, maybe the world around me might glow a little bit more heaven-sent.
it’s the wisdom and the glory of the book of spring: the world bursts into beautiful all around, undeniably all around, so that we too might know that at the end of our seasons when no growing, no perceptible beauty is apparent, there is something breathtaking astir, something take-your-breath-away just beneath the surface, coming soon to bloom.
what lessons do you extract from the beauties — or the heartbreaks — of the spring?
and one more little wisp from the pages of The Blessings of Motherprayer…..
Aah, another masterpiece bam… thank you!
Oh, you sweet sweet angel! Thank you!!!
In a week when midnight May downpours through a leaky roof sent stained water percolated through 104-year-old walls into my sun room, and something thicker and much nastier heaving up through basement drainpipes toward stored treasures, came a voicemail today to make me smile: The grapevine is leafing out. That’s the yin and yang (not necessarily in that order) of spring. I am paying attention!
OHHHHHHHH the hallelujah voicemail!!! don’t you love folks dear enough to leave voicemail updates on leafing outs? that reminds me of the dear nun a few years ago who would call every few days to give me the minute-by-minute updates on the linden tree when i was intent on gathering blossoms to make tea for my friend who needed balms amid her cancer……the magic of the tilo tree….https://pullupachair.org/2015/07/03/the-magic-of-the-tilo-tree-the-tree-that-soaks-up-sunshine-and-lives-and-breathes-to-soothe/
in the meantime, i am SOOOO sorry about the ooze from above and below. and reveling in your itty-bitty proof of life in leaves…..
And the voicemail was from a no-nonsense, taciturn, work-boots-and-pickup-truck kind of guy. I think I overwhelmed him when I called to thank him for the news and tell him it made my day.
i could not love this whole thing more…..xoxoxox
I’ve been walking around our gardens as if in a reverie. Spring is an enchantment, something new every moment. The birdsong, the blossoms, the heavenly rain, the sweet new leaves… It’s by far my favorite time of year. Happy spring! xxoo
xoxoxo you are somehow synonymous with all the bursting forths of spring….xoxo