Beautiful Indignation

Beautiful Indignation

When I saw the blossoming trees the other day, I found myself feeling betrayed by the arrival of spring.

I wondered : how could you be in all your glory, so soon? 

I had been convinced that nothing was going to change, winter would be here forever, and nothing would bloom again. I got used to the cold, and it was OK because it was familiar. 

I know beauty lives in the generosity, in the offering, in the truth of the opening, and it also lives in the cracks that allow the space and light to come in. . 

I felt the splendor of their petals asking me to do the same, to blossom, which was met by disbelief that I could. For this is the first spring I have met without my grandparents and cousin here on this earth. This is the first spring they are not feeling the sun on their skin, and all of a sudden I feel this loss all over again. The sorrow is as expansive as the bounty of color and shape decorating this land is deep. 

The daffodils stand so proudly and confidently, and all I can think is : how could you be so joyful after all of this?  Again and again, year after year, still you rise. Must I do the same? I’ve grown too comfortable here in my cocoon.  

The crocuses are softer with their invitation.  I am grateful for their gentle coaxing as they seem to say,

“Take  small steps my dear.

We are here with you to show you that you can, to show you that you already are -

for we are a reflection of you and this forever unearthing of your becoming.”

The forsythia wafts with ways of remembering. 

Faced with the beauty and the feelings of loss simultaneously :  I crumble and cry, and shake my fist : why? 

I surprised myself by how vehemently I opposed the harbingers of spring, the signs we all wait for desperately as the winter days tick by. Eventually my tears cleared a path for a trip to the garden store. I bought packs and packs of pansies to keep the  memory of my loved ones close, by finding them in the beauty this earth so generously provides. 

They have died, and they live on in me. I suspect they would wish for me to meet change with open arms and reverence. 

And so I plant my pansies, and kneel on the ground as I bring paintings to form of big, bright, bold flowers. This practice becomes my own form of prayer and offering of gratitude in witnessing another spring unfold. 

Back to blog