Springtime

Helen Hays said, "All through the long winter, I dream of my garden. On the first day of spring, I dig my fingers deep into the soft earth. I can feel its energy, and my spirits soar."

According to my calendar, tomorrow is the first day of spring.

Nothing magical will happen in the morning, I'm afraid. I will wake long before the sun rises, go to my office, and sit with my back to the window all day. Then I will leave and feel the afternoon sun for the first time, as if my day begins at 3pm and not 7am.

Nature does not heed the instructions of the paper calendars very well. For the past few days, the last of chronological winter, the earth has been whispering promises of spring. Warm winds, short rain storms. I could hear Tates Creek's marching band practicing this afternoon. My windows in my car have been rolled down for three days straight now. My sister's birthday is in just a few days.

Just because the calendar says tomorrow is the first day of spring does not make it so.

But it has been a long winter.

I am itching to get my hands dirty. To hike a trail, to climb a mountain. To touch the earth in a way winter will not permit. To be part of something big. To be made to feel small.

Part of me secretly wonders if the onset of a physical spring might induce a spiritual spring as well. If March 20th won't ring in the season of singing after all.

The world is waking up around me. The physical world, the spiritual world. Our windows and our hearts are being thrown wide open. To let new air in, old air out. Time to shake the dust off. Expose our skin to the sun. Let our bare feet sink in the dirt, be tickled by the grass. Let our minds be renewed, opened to new ideas.

I have been preserving hope throughout this past winter. It was not in ample supply, that is for sure. This was the first Kentucky winter during which I experienced a level of seasonal depression. Perhaps this is because only in the past few years have I discovered my God in nature. And the onslaught of a winter in the Bluegrass means inconsistency, ice, bitterness, grayness. Containment. Confinement.

It is almost as if tomorrow holds a promise.

Whispering of an opportunity.

To reconnect.

With who I am.

And who God is.

To climb a mountain and be close to Him.

I might have even fooled myself into thinking that by being in nature, I might find some direction. By becoming lost in the woods, I might find my way.

These past few months have sent my brain spinning. My heart. As if my faith, my creativity, my perseverance, and my hope were seeds. And a big wind came and scattered them right out of my palm ...

And I've been lost without them.

Like every aspect of myself has been pulled in an opposite direction. Setting me flailing ungracefully.

But the promise of spring awakens this hope for peace inside of me. For what can only be called a reunion. A coming together. Congruency. A joining of soul and body.

I have a suspicion that this awakening hope has nothing to do with the 70 degree weather.

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Maybe soon my flailing will be transformed into a graceful pirouette. I will regain control of my limbs and my thoughts and my aspirations and my fears.

And the world will make a little more sense because all of me will be spinning in the same direction.

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I look forward to Saturday when we will all pack up cars with people and bagels and hiking shoes and drive to Slade.

There we will enter into a sanctuary.

A holy place filled with Him.

Set apart ... nearly untouched.

Where our hearts are safe.

And we can fall to our knees, let our hands sift through the dirt, and be reminded.

God is everywhere.

All the time.