Early spring is my absolute favorite time of year. I love the first few warm days that signal a shift in weather patterns. I do enjoy the hidden secrecy of winter (see my last post), but mostly because I know the role it plays in preparation for spring. But this time of year it feels like the entire earth is intoxicated with joy. Everyone you meet seems like they have shaken off the heavy winter daze, and exchanged it for a lighthearted smile. Amusingly, the common thread, though underlying, always seems to be "we made it!" We survived. Like in the Psalms, where the Israelites shook off the weight of their long captivity in a foreign country proclaimed "we were like those who dreamed." People everywhere seem just downright happy.
In my last post, I described the woods in winter like C.S. Lewis's frozen world of Charn. Spring is like the dawning world of Narnia. The very air seems pregnant with potential. The things we dreamed up over the winter, the plans we laid out on a piece of paper, get put into motion. Today, I planted my first round of seeds for my garden this year. I'll soon be buying materials for more updates. I saw a robin. I've killed two spiders. Things are moving and changing. New beginnings are everywhere. One of the things I love the most is the surge of energy I get this time of year. I'm up early and late, planting seeds, taking notes, and just putting things in motion. Everything in me says "go time."
Also, soon I will be brewing what will hopefully become a trademark early-spring tradition: Maple Wheat. It's my first shot at an original recipe, rather than buying a pre-put-together kit.
Aside from all that, though, I really believe that the shift to spring really touches something deep in me. To me, this is what heaven on earth looks like. Winter is like the "deep darkness covering the earth," and spring is the "arise and shine." The world inoculated with the creative potential of God. Calling things that aren't as though they are, and watching the things that seemed dead begin to bud. Shedding heavy winter garments and heavy winter hearts. Life is everywhere!
May this season be an encouragement to you,
PB
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The Woods in Winter
I wrote this on one of my lunchtime walks along the Dead River:
I love the pulse of the woods in winter. It's slow, subtle, hidden. There is a sacred quiet, that forbids you to speak or even to think. It pulls you into it's stillness, it's dormancy. It's not a defeated stillness, it's one of utter rest, seemingly frozen in time. Life is there, but it seems encased inside living sculptures. The only sounds of life are those of a handful of winter birds, and maybe some squirrels. Even these behave as if they are stowaways wandering about a forbidden museum.
There is something mysterious about the frozen forest. With the undergrowth dormant or locked in seeds awaiting spring, the landscape opens up and reveals it's secrets. There are paths and routes that were before hidden from you. The landscape itself changes every day as snow accumulates, drifts, and settles. One day there is evidence that there were other strangers wandering the alien terrain, the next day their traces are gone. The wind is devoid of the wet slapping of leaves in the summer, or the dry crackling of autumn, nor does it carry the sweet scent of promise in the spring. It sounds ethereal, distant, with it's hollow whooshing, deterred only by empty branches and conifer needles. Wind in it's pure and ancient form, able to blow through your very bones.
There is something exhilarating about wandering through the woods in this season. You are in a hostile environment, trusting in your ability to return to the safety of the warmer indoor climate. You feel, on a deep level, "I shouldn't be here," much like Digory and Polly as they explored the frozen and fading world of Charn. But it is only in this season that, once the risk is accepted, the forest shares her deepest secrets.
I love the pulse of the woods in winter. It's slow, subtle, hidden. There is a sacred quiet, that forbids you to speak or even to think. It pulls you into it's stillness, it's dormancy. It's not a defeated stillness, it's one of utter rest, seemingly frozen in time. Life is there, but it seems encased inside living sculptures. The only sounds of life are those of a handful of winter birds, and maybe some squirrels. Even these behave as if they are stowaways wandering about a forbidden museum.
There is something mysterious about the frozen forest. With the undergrowth dormant or locked in seeds awaiting spring, the landscape opens up and reveals it's secrets. There are paths and routes that were before hidden from you. The landscape itself changes every day as snow accumulates, drifts, and settles. One day there is evidence that there were other strangers wandering the alien terrain, the next day their traces are gone. The wind is devoid of the wet slapping of leaves in the summer, or the dry crackling of autumn, nor does it carry the sweet scent of promise in the spring. It sounds ethereal, distant, with it's hollow whooshing, deterred only by empty branches and conifer needles. Wind in it's pure and ancient form, able to blow through your very bones.
There is something exhilarating about wandering through the woods in this season. You are in a hostile environment, trusting in your ability to return to the safety of the warmer indoor climate. You feel, on a deep level, "I shouldn't be here," much like Digory and Polly as they explored the frozen and fading world of Charn. But it is only in this season that, once the risk is accepted, the forest shares her deepest secrets.
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