Ostara and the Ovid Moon of Metamorphoses
Sunday gratefuls: Kate’s vaccine #1. Pesach. Liberation is an always relevant story. Seder. CBE. Rabbi Jamie. Marilyn. Tara. Alan. Jamie Bernstein. Susan Marcus. Rich Levine. Ron Solomon. The tribe and its camp followers.
Sparks of Joy: Story and its transformative power.
Look at your life this way. At least you’re not the captain of the Ever Given. Stucky McStuckface. Oh, geez. Sorry, world. My bad.
Spring. In the Mountains it comes with Snow. When we came back from Korea, 4 feet. April 16th. 5 years ago. Joe and Seoah flying toward their 5th anniversary. From Korea to Warner Robbins, Georgia to Singapore to Hawai’i. Quite the journey for the two of them. As much as I loathe the idea of another move, they embrace each one, put up with the late arrival of their stuff, settle into new surroundings. Love is a source of so many Springs.
As a former gardener, Spring was a moment of completion and beginning. The perennials planted in the Fall, especially the Spring Ephemerals like Crocus, Hyacinth, Anemone, Daffodils would not wait for the snow to clear. They gathered their strength, read the temperature, and gently, a cell at a time, reached for the sun. Then we could plant the early season Vegetables, too: Kale, Collard Greens, Peas, Leeks, Lettuce and more.
Oh, what a moment. The seed catalogs might still be on the kitchen table, the opened boxes from Seed Savers, Harris, Burpee, Jung, Johnny’s in the shed Jon built. Tools sharpened, soil nutrients applied, songbirds singing. Newly hived bees buzzing in and out of their homes, excited like Kate and me for the blooming colorful confusion.
No matter what the Winter had done. If book manuscripts had been rejected, a Dog had died, family heartache intensified, Spring still came. It offered heart cleansing work, hands deep in the soil, bags of compost over the shoulder, beds dug and re-dug with the wonderful spade.
Little wonder Spring is on my mind now.
Yes, I’m a fan of the deep, dark. The Winter Solstice being a high holiday for me. It has its place too. Just as annual, or eternal, revivification does. It’s more than a delight, more than a beacon of hope, more than a metaphor. It is a movement built into the nature of reality, one of the ways of creation. Kali dances in the dark, a warrior goddess of inky hiddeness. And, I love her and her passion for justice.
In this season Jesus shows there ain’t no grave gonna hold his body down. The Hebrew slaves paint lamb’s blood on the lintel, then head out for the promised land. Spoiler alert! Successful escape. Holi makes its many splendored appearance on the streets of India.
And more to my taste:
stems: now she sings it! Listen, Earth sings!
Rainer Maria Rilke; translated by Stephen Cohn
Spring. If the whole Great Wheel is a true metaphor for human life, all life, really, in fact, all creation, and, I believe it is, then spring is that moment when fallowness throws off its dull, brown cloak and puts on the green one with embroidered flowers.
If Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter are seasons of our human lives, and, again, I believe they are, then the question arises, can there be Spring in the Winter of my life?
Yes. Indeed. Whatever has been fallow, has been waiting beside you to be recognized can emerge. Even in Winter.
I look forward now, in the Winter of my life, to the Spring writing and cooking and hiking and traveling I will do. To tomorrow and the days after, still disguised as to their content, but known to me as this moment, later.
So the Great Wheel turns through every season, and within them. It is the way, the tao. The ten thousand things come into existence, grow, mature, then slowly decay. True for all my relations, as the Lakota people say. Blessed be.