This morning came in with rain and a curtain of clouds hanging low over the Worcester Mountain range.
Snow is finally melting on this hillside, giving way to brown grass in the field, terraced beds of winter rye in the garden. The forecast for the next few days is one of transition: rain, sun, a blip of snow, clouds, more rain, and the temperatures slowly zig-zagging between the 20s and 40s F.
Internally, I’m feeling the need to pause.
To let the rain come and wash away the snow. To be patient, though the greenhouse may already look like June. To sit quietly and let a cup of tea melt the tension that always seems to come with transition.
I don’t know about you, but the external environment always affects my internal environment. As we move from winter to spring, I alternate between the rush of planting and the slow reflection that comes with snow.
Some days are blue skies and bird song, while others pull me back to tea and an extra log in the wood stove. And then there are the days, like this one, of not quite being sure which direction I’m going.
Is it rain or snow? Melt or freeze? Movement or stillness?
Do ever feel this tension, too?
Just yesterday, we noticed the red buds of a maple tree, plump and vibrant. It will be a while yet before they open, but in this back and forth of winter and spring, those buds remind me what to do in the in-between:
Growth doesn’t happen on cruise-control. It speeds and slows, bursts and pauses.
I’m taking a lesson from maple trees today, and allowing myself to pause. To sit and listen to the rain dabble and dance on the roof. To trust the energy that flows inside me like sap, even as I sit here quietly as the morning stretches out.