Spring, the season of new beginning, is slow to come to our city this year. I have spoken with so many people who feel they are ready for the warmer weather, ready for the warmth of love to consistently shine on their faces. But you cannot rush love, as you cannot tell a tree when to bloom. It will in its own divine time, bloom when it is ready.
Huge grey clouds have brought rain every day, drumming on tin roofs, snaking down the sides of streets and feeding the river until it’s swollen belly washes out the tumultuous rapids. The rain is like our tears, releasing what is needed to water our new dreams, a release that encourages growth. And under the Fir boughs, we rise from the fallen trees of our past, nourished by the things we once built and let go of. The sooner we let the past erode beneath us, the faster we can focus our energy into new growth and reach for the sun.
I watch the gnarled old apple tree sit quietly above the elderly man. They have both seen many seasons, have bloomed many times before today. Perhaps the tree waits for bees the way this man waits for someone to speak to. The girl walking into the coffee shop in a peach skirt is waiting for someone to notice her shoes. A baby less than two inches long waits for his mother to recognize his presence layers beneath her blue blouse. A child waits out in the park with a rainbow colored kite, squinting up at the sky, hoping for a lift of inspiration from the wind. Like the goose waiting on her nest for the dog to pass, everywhere there is a pregnant pause of anticipation. The dog intently watches his owner, waiting for him to toss the green Frisbee and begin the game again.
Perhaps we all wait for love in our own way.
These stories are continually being written, stories of separation and connection, joined like prayers being answered and intentions being realized. Waiting in line for her latte, the tall woman adjusts the hem of her blue blouse and as her hands pass over her belly she pauses, drawing in a startled breath. The girl in the peach skirt leaves the coffee shop and crosses the street with clicking footsteps and swishing hips. She pauses to talk to the little old man, who points to her shoes and says something that makes her smile. Above them, the first bees of the season enter the embrace of apple blossoms, indulging themselves in pollen and sunshine. A delighted dog barks in the distance as he bounds into the swollen river after a floating green Frisbee. The pair of proud geese now parade their tiny new beginnings - golden goslings out from under the shade of the apple tree, their feathers rustled by the warming wind that parts the clouds and begins to lift a rainbow colored bird into the sky.
