On Shifts and Spring

And reorganizing priorities

Early in the week, gusty winds and hefty storms swept through to pave a path of spring in my neighborhood. The clouds shielding the sun happened to safeguard my neighbors, friends and family from more severe threats. The gloom was a blessing. I thought about how I use my own inner grey clouds to protect myself from the full force of grief, hurt and disappointment, as if these emotions would wreak such havoc on my body and mind that I would not survive them.

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From this standpoint, I wondered what it would feel like to allow all the sunshine in, sweep the fog away and soak in the joy, the awe, the beauty without fearing the void left behind. I wondered what it would take to trust myself to navigate my inner landscape just one percent more. To what extent do you trust your body, your thoughts and your personal narratives? How do you know?

The warm and cold air collision—as took place last Monday—creates such incredible power, the kind that makes me remember how small I really am in the grand scheme. I wonder what might happen if I make more space for conflicting notions and battling emotions, hot and cold, fire and ice. There must be awesome power in that experience, too, the kind that bears the potential to change who we think we are. What aspects of yourself are seemingly incompatible? Which do you hold at bay, and which do we hold sacred? What parts of your daily life and which actions do you hold reverence for, and which cause you to check out?

Clearly, the natural world mirrors the internal world beautifully, meaningfully, in a way that makes my critical mind believe in magic and spirit. This has been the common thread in the circles I am proud to be a part of, rediscovering our relationship with the earth, with others in our orbits, but starting with the way we interact with the multitude of our own parts. What does your part collection, your heart yearn for these days? A sense of purpose or fulfillment? Connection with nature or communion with others (human or non)?

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According to Thomas Berry in the book Recovering a Sense of the Sacred: Conversations with Thomas Berry by Carolyn W. Toben:

We are all a communion of subjects and when this is remembered it brings unity; a sense of mutual presence arises. The word ‘presence’ evokes a sense of immediacy, of something happening now. It is an intimate communion of thought; we become aware of a fluidity between ourselves and ‘others’ which is the sacred reality within us all… There is a longing for this kind of communion and this intimate capacity for human relationships which human survival actually depends on. (p. 71)

And because we need each other in this way, maybe being present is the greatest gift we have to give. Being present for the excitement, the laughter and the pain, for the grief that bestows its own gifts of awareness, reflection, compassion and appreciation. We can also give this gift to ourselves, showing up for the changing of seasons and the shifts in the natural world.

I welcome the showy blooming of the daffodils even as I lament that they are blossoming way too early. I despair that the hummingbirds are dwindling in their flocks, yet I delight in taking in their tiny, shimmering bodies that laugh in the face of physics, the miniature marvels darting their way to my struggling heart. Just like the terrifying spring winds exist in a special brand of harmony with the growing warmth of the sun, I seem to always be caught in the throes of expanding my capacity for inner harmony, for both/and, for contradictions and the irreconcilable. What are you expanding capacity for in your life? What contradictions are you noticing? How does it feel to hang out in the grey space?

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Like so many of us, I have been sitting in a lot of emotional and physical discomfort lately. The pain from my frozen shoulder literally grips me, chokes my motivation and separates me from restorative practices like walking and rest. Having placed so much value in my work and in the project I am co-constructing with my team, I unintentionally shelved the activities that protect my well-being. I have worn long hours of emotional and cognitive labor like a badge of honor.

I had my annual physical exam recently and discovered on paper what I already sensed in my gut—that this neglect has led to the erosion of my health. With my lab work functioning as a cold glass of water to the face, I took some time to myself this week to pause work. To slow down and reconnect with the broken parts of me, let myself fall apart fully so I can assess, take inventory of what is left. Lay it out like a puzzle that I can begin to piece together.

It was in this pause that it occurred to me how much in my day-to-day goes unnoticed, passed over without the curiosity or humility that they merit. From the nights’ frog sound creating a chamber for my dreams to the carpenter ant making its seasonal constitutional through my kitchen. I made time to pick up Journey in Place by Janisse Ray and immerse myself in one of her lovely, guided exercises on belonging rather than rush through them as I normally do. I do not want to treat my days as to-do lists and checkoff boxes, only able to breathe and appreciate when the tasks are done. I am not that important. This beautiful earth will spin on with or without me. What do you want to make time for in your day? What have you neglected? What do you want to embrace?

I thought I would share my responses to some of the prompts in Journey in Place Exploration 12, because I was struck by how quickly these words ejected themselves from my pen onto the page. I had no idea how primed I was to create something.

A Sense of Place—Natural History

First, picture the daffodil, its slender leaves slicing above the winter ground like tiny blades. The pioneers of spring, they stretch their necks and blossom, reaching toward the sun to beg it stay just a little bit longer. Their colors of butter and cream, they prepare us for rain and warmth, then bow to it, shrinking back into their underground tombs when their work is done.

I have stood on the rock, my feet unevenly placed, to reach just a touch closer to the robin’s nest. The rock lifts me gently, not so far as to disturb the life growing there.

I am curious about the black mushroom stemming up from the base of this rock, glistening ominously and signaling something true from underground. What message does it bear for the living? What compact power lies in its shadowy cap and gills?

Walk with me on the Briar Chapel trail, be mindful of the saplings beneath your feet and the lichens beneath your thumb. Feel the bark of each tree gripping your fingertips and the sensations left behind. Don’t forget to look to your left and to your right, spotting the bamboo shields from which the spring rabbits emerge. The bright green tree frog, the onyx-colored garden snake may meet you along the path, reminding you…

Ode to the Carpenter Bee

The holes you create in my cabin

Are perfectly round,

Tiny impossibilities.

Not content with nests or cradles,

You create galleries for your children.

Those of you who bear life are docile

But when provoked you produce

A mighty sting.

Your fuse is long but potent

At its base. The males,

White patch faces shining,

You threaten and chase,

Put on a show of strength

And have nothing else

To back it up.

There is poetry to this arrangement.

You pollinate, and sometimes

You rob the friendly flower of its nectar

Without offering your services of flight.

Maybe it offended you

So the deal you once struck is off.

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