Each year I send a photo of my first spotting of a spring flower to my longtime friend, Melodee, in Anchorage. She sends me back a picture of her snow covered driveway. It is a pause to appreciate the perpetual power of the seasons.
Every year the crocus counsels me on the inevitability of spring. Every year I need her precious reminder.
As winter comes to a close, I find myself mysteriously steeped in focusing on doubts and disappointments, mostly in myself. Am I once again pledging to purge the little stacks and bags and boxes lingering in corners? Am I really starting all over again with my intention to have a meaningful meditation practice? Are those my shoulders slumping in that photo?
If I am not wholeheartedly on fire about what is happening in my life, I can forget that there are times when we will be and do more, and times when we will be and do less. My life has been rich. I got a good education. Saw a bit of the world. Enjoyed two great professions. Wrote a book. Raised amazing children. Married twice. Divorced once. Fell in love a few times. Saw the death of a brother, a father, a mother, a husband. Walked on hot coals (literally). Despite having lived plenty, I sometimes forget the inevitable cycles of life.
When my horoscope predicted a lot of lessons this year, my optimistic me declared it my year of learning. I shared this with a friend, who then asked, “What were all of those other years?” “I have to repeat a few classes,” I admitted.
Despite decades of daffodils and flowering crab apple trees, I forget the lesson that spring comes again.
I forget that my failures give me a fertile foundation for forging toward my future. But for death and divorce, I would not know that one could love again, or that one could lose a great love and still live to see another spring.
Thank you, crocus, for reminding me that I can rise up and out of the cold and the dark, that I can reach upward toward the light and the warmth, that the winter of my disappointment will pass, and that a new season is arriving.
As you travel your divorce journey, may you find your crocus. May she remind you that spring will follow your winter--- always. Something beautiful is on the brink of blooming. And it’s you.