The seasons are slow to turn here. We had sleet and hail today, and it’s nearly May. We’re all cold and tired and feeling grayer than the sky outside. I’ve packed away my coat and refuse to take my boots back out of the closet. I will protest this lingering winter with flats and no socks. Frigid toes are better than losing hope that spring will arrive any minute.

I will protest this lingering winter with flats and no socks. Frigid toes are better than losing hope that spring will arrive any minute. Click To Tweet

I feel new dreams begin to rise too, like the bulbs that have dared to brave the cold and ice. Alone they stand on the edges of my garden and lawn like lighthouses, beacons of the coming thaw. I am afraid to let them see the light of day, that the heat of summer may squelch them and make my heart wither. But it is grow or die. Germination, even glacially so, is acceptable, but stagnation is the death knell.

It feels like the world has been in false labor for far too long and dreading the coming pain and transition while still looking forward to the new life ahead. The coming months feel pregnant but my mind is afraid to fully embrace what my heart begins to yearn for. What will it bring, this promised growth?

I cannot know, which is what strikes fear into my bones, even as my soul longs for its coming.

“See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me”

Song of Songs 2: 11-13