Spirit of Life, Source of Being,
Open our hearts and minds to all that is possible in this season of liminality. This in-between season. Sometimes winter, sometimes nearly spring. Not quite one nor the other.
Beneath the crust of earth, seeds and bulbs lay in store. Some—crocus and daffodil—have dared to pierce the surface. Braving to become the next iteration of self. A new bloom.
On the forsythia and magnolia branches, petals curl into themselves, swelling into uncertain buds, waiting for the optimal conditions of light and warmth and rain to unfold into their potential for beauty and delight.
On the bare branches of maple, oak, and elm, tiny leaves are invisibly budding. Readying themselves for their debut. A new wardrobe for a new season.
We too are waiting. Waiting to grow again. Like perennial plants and deciduous trees, we don’t grow along a singular trajectory—from infancy through childhood to the full bloom of adulthood and the wider unfolding of elder years.
Rather we grow anew, year upon year, in seasons and cycles.
In the cold and dark of winters—real and metaphorical—we hunker down, seek shelter and stillness, conserve energy. So that new vitality can germinate.
In this liminal season, we are waiting for signs of longer light, lasting warmth, and quenching rains. Waiting to grow again, anew.
What new growth is budding in you, readying itself to make its debut, to adorn the world with new beauty and delight?
Can you hear it singing?