For the love of all that is good in the world I would like to now declare that bastard also known as winter officially outta here. March roared in with Thor and roared out (although not as mightily) with another light blanket of white. Our “Easter snow” consisted of some little ice balls peppering the ground early yesterday and now…. Now we are looking at buds and birds and greenbriers (the first things to appear for spring).
There are things that I complain incessantly about just like every other annoying human. Winter is one of them. Although I remain committed to my eventual plan to vacate this existence in favor of a place with more “suitable” weather for my cold-blooded, heat loving body, I am stuck here for a bit. So, every year, I welcome spring with wide open arms. Every bit of it. Even the mud. Mud is one thing I refuse to complain about. Heat is another. I am NOT an equal opportunity complainer. Winter gets all my love in that regard.
So, right now, things are really messy here. LOL. You wouldn’t notice it quite as much living a quiet, mostly inside life in town, but out here in the woods and at the barn... Lords, we are ankle deep in it. My yard itself has some, uh-hum, drainage issues I am working on. The trail above me sends lots of moisture over the hill right into my backyard. The result is….spongy. The barn, well, let us talk about horse hooves and grass and water = mud.
This is a really messy time of year, which gets me thinking about the birth of a season and the earth in general. I think that spring is possibly the most misunderstood season. Because people want it to be something it is not. Yes, they love the concept of winter ending and warmer weather and “life renewed” but they think in terms that aren’t accurate. People want spring to be like modern Easter. Full of brightly colored, clean eggs and new frilly clean dresses and enormous feasts fit for a very clean village.
That ain’t spring! Spring is fucking messy! It is muddy, wet, gooey and sometimes painful (if you count wiping up your floors four times a day from little dirty footprints as critters come and go). It is true birth. Birth of the creatures that we share the world with, the trees and plants that bud (and pollinate speaking of painful for many), the flowers that have struggled to the surface and finally break through, the cold blooded frogs, lizards and snakes that lie curled in the earth as they begin to come back to life…
These things aren’t sterile and crisp, clean white. They are bathed in the colors of struggle. The colors of blood and tears and grit. It takes an enormous amount of work to renew oneself and that rebirth doesn’t come without those things.
When I walk outside these mornings I am not greeted with promise. Promise was for Imbolc. Promise was the whispered words of those still underground telling me to hold on, just hold on a little longer… Promise has passed now and we have burst forth into what is real. What is real is that birth is all around us and every bit as messy as it should be.