I cannot fathom an encouragement more relevant to living. It is the materialization of dormant hope, a reminder that no matter how dead living feels, inside thrives a life just waiting for the right conditions. All we have to do is nurture it with the climate needed to flourish.
Typically spring bursts into such beauty that even at my age and after so many I find it amazingly splendorous. I don’t think any spring can ever come without causing me to rethink the pure awesomeness of the transformation it brings. If such a contrast of potential exists in all that’s around us seemingly so dead, then that potential lives inside us, too. There can be no doubt.
On the other hand …
There are times, like now where I live, when spring feels like such a long, tedious, crawling haul that it’s more like pulling winter’s teeth than the spontaneous burst of new life we’ve waited for. Oh man, I fear by the time all is said & done with this year’s spring we’ll be in the dead heat of a hot summer.
Every time I do laundry I store away winter clothes thinking I couldn’t possibly need them again. Here it is mid-May and it’s still so damp and chilly I’m pulling those back out to wear. I’ve open & shut storm windows and put the window fan in and taken it out more times than I care to count. I’m still using heat most of any given day, go figure. My body is not cooperating at all, as I feel as miserably cold now as I did all winter long in much colder temperatures.
I’ve only lived in this area a couple of years so I’m never quite sure if one season’s anomalies are really anomalies or if I’m not familiar enough to know what is or isn’t. I don’t recall last spring being this cold & dreary or prolonged but, heck, I’ve lived so many places by now I’m doing good to remember one from another any time of any year.
One thing I love about my hopefully last move is that I have a writing room now. I was careful to arrange it with a view out the window that overlooks a small field with a line of adjacent woods.
All winter long I’ve watched this tree line in the distance, seemingly so dead, little more than a small woods that long ago outlived its purpose. The woods appeared so starkly dead I wondered if there was any possibility of life left – hoping they would turn plush again – hoping I didn’t have to stare at winter’s dead all spring and summer, too. There’s just something really depressing about a small woods of nothing but rigid, pointy dead, gray trees.
When everyone here first thought spring had arrived, as opposed to the second or third times before the weather turned all cold dead gray again, there were gorgeous Dogwood trees. Those are one of my most favorite spring blossoms. But the gray wooded tree line was still so stark and brittle I’d convinced myself it had no more life to give. It seemed so sadly hopeless I’d stopped looking for any change.
One day I looked up and as if in a moment’s passing that whole woods had turned plush green, flourishing with life and new foliage. Now if the weather would just cooperate. I’m not sure what this spring is trying to teach me, as it’s sure been a strange one. Maybe it’s that you just can’t rush a good thing.
For similar reasons of impatience, I never liked fishing, either.
In response to Word Press Daily Prompt, “Flourish.”