winter to spring

After a cold day of blowing snow yesterday, this morning the sun is bright, the air is resting, and the blue shines brilliant. Not one cloud. Just remnants remain beneath the trees of all those furious wet flakes. March always seems a struggle between  these two. I can almost visualize winter’s refusal to give in as her power wanes to the softer side of the always turning wheel. Spring smiles because she knows victory is safe, and  just lets winter bluster every so often… a kind sister.  Even us humans may complain, but we tolerate these tantrums, because we feel within us the shift. All the signs are present.  Our hopes begin to feel like possibilities again. Our hearts begin to open a little wider.

When our hearts open, our senses begin to operate fully. We can smell the sweet earthy aroma beneath our feet, and are moved to rake the garden beds, dig, and work (that feels like play). We see the subtle green begin to show in the pasture grass. We hear the crows begin their springtime chortle. We feel a stronger sun on our faces. And we look up more now. We remember the growing season to come, what seeds and plants give. And I do not only mean luscious homegrown  tomatoes, or showoff peony blossom lace. They provide us with joy, beauty, and a strong, often forgotten connection to the earth, on a deep, sometimes unconscious level. 

It is looking at each day now like a birthday where the gifts surround me. It does feel like being born again every March,”Happy Birthday to me!”.  My thank you notes are sent directly to this mother that freely gives. I speak my gratitude with words and songs and prayers. I catch myself chanting as I walk and work outside, and laugh at myself. Laughter is so much easier now. 

But here I want to speak about winter. Although cold is not this body’s friend, and I succumb to the short, dark days unwillingly, I know it is the winter sleep that allows for what awakens in my spirit now. I celebrate the time of quiet rest on the Winter Solstice, and unfailingly appreciate the holy silence and bright stars of the winter sky. The snow is beautiful, and a gallop through it, beyond exhilarating. But this is often a difficult time for many. Yet incubating ideas and dreams all winter, like tiny seeds beneath the snow, is what brings me to where I am now…to this place where a restored creative life can unfurl its first small leaves.

coltsfoot and peepers

There are signs that spring is here, finally, but none more real to me than the little yellow coltsfoot blooms. When I rode in last night right at dusky dark , they were unseen. But today I was out early, and there they were. Perhaps the warm night had teased them into showing their radiant, sunlike blossoms this morning. The ditch banks were filled. If you weren’t paying attention, you might think…dandelions, but look again. There is that definite soft center surrounded by fine fringe, and no leaves. They leap from the earth into full flower, in less than 12 hours time.  Every March this  little flower  says” TaDa!” with it’s bold surprise. The name of course comes from their leaves that appear next…big, broad, and shaped like horses hooves. Then the happy blossom finally turns onto the seed heads, looking more akin to those dandelions.

Coltsfoot is used in traditional medicine for a variety of ailments. Best to make an infusion of the leaves and flowers beneficial for upper respiratory ailments such as coughing, (especially that morning cough), expelling mucous, and as an anti inflammatory.  So gather,  boil it down, and you have a free gift from nature’s pharmacopeia. It is good for my mind, as well. All I have to do is see it there, reaching toward the sun, and it acts as a natural anti depressant. This morning my good mare Jane passed by, and I spied it there in the mud and tall grasses, I just had to shout, “Hallelujah!” It is a simple weed, yet it says so much about where we are on the wheel of the seasons. Yes, I have a few croci blooming in the yard, but I planted them. Although thrilled to see those little purple friends, the coltsfoot lives a wild life, and that I greatly respect with its uncultivated moxie, to be the first bloomer out there in an uncertain world.

Late last night I heard the spring peepers for the first time this year. Another cause for celebration.  Earlier I had ridden through the fields around the ponds a few miles from home looking and listening, but there was silence except for a liquid “plop… plop” here and there around the full circumference. The lesser blue heron  scolded us raucously as we disturbed her off the nest, and she flew low across the water. The moon had risen over Butler mountain awhile before dark, and I stopped there to admire its reflection in the still blackness. It was one of those moments lost from the counting of time. I breathed it all in, content in the spring evening. I wondered to myself about the peepers, “When will the chorus begin”? Then Bess, dog of a lifetime, (who lives to go out riding), decided to follow her bliss into the pond shattering the egg shaped image into many moons, made into lace, among the rippling circles. Rather than creating an unwelcome interruption, a  joy deepening into peace swept through me. My dear 4 leggeds and all the sensual blessings of earth joined together to cast a spell and expand my heart. I thought of all those I love, my children, husband, sisters, friends. I also considered all those that I don’t know across the planet that are feeling pain, suffering anxiety, loss, and transmitted the here and now of this experience, out in waves…knowing in some way the energy of this space in time would reach them, and perhaps touch their hearts with this palpable, deep peace.

At some point, I turned toward home and walked quietly off. It was getting dark. The moon shining bright as a lantern guided me through familiar fields, to the gates, and out to the hardtop. Another 20 minutes to the driveway. As I unsaddled at the barn, I heard the peepers begin, as if waiting  for my return. Off in to the woods, by the creek to the west  of the big pasture I could hear them singing, shouting, exulting. I had won the bet with Rick . He predicted the 12th. Not as optimistic, I said the 20th. Here it was Saint Patrick’s day, and the green frogs with their beautiful mix of baritone and tenor were crooning. Spring’s pre game show had really begun. Maybe it was last night’s peepers that sang the coltsfoot into bloom this morning.

early spring rain

I want to talk about rain. It has been raining for three solid days now. In spring we often say, “showers”, because we are more tolerant now than two months ago, and the word, showers, sounds pleasant. These are not the cold downpours we grumbled about a month ago. I personally would prefer seeing snow sparkling in the barn light, rather than suffer those drenching long black streaks of winter rain. Two nights ago I sat comfortably in the barn aisle just listening to the rain on the roof and the horses content, munching hay. With Bess dreaming dog dreams beside my feet, I pondered the ending of winter in a week, and what its lessons had been this year. Reflection is a part of growth, even when it is means climbing back in and through those old tunnels we prefer not revisiting. Winter always cuts to the marrow of what needs digesting, to survive. I am still chewing. It is pretty tough, and a bit bitter at times.

I also wondered what new would sprout from thoughts and ideas planted at the time of returning light, way back on the holyday of winter solstice. They were given further form and energy in February on imbolc. Today the stirrings seemed to be reaching up through my own consciousness as well as the rain softened ground. The sky brightens from dark slate to dove grey. Yellow shows through the tight green daffodil buds, but I tell them to be patient. I worry the surely to be counted on cold snap will burn the blooms. To the apple and peach trees, I say, “Hold On.” as their little buds consider loosening, much to early. Concerned they will be fooled by this temporary mildness in their rush toward growth, and not bear fruit, so I counsel them. Here I am standing in the rain talking to flowers and trees. But that is what I do. I remember my barn reflection. Okay, I get the connection. Here is the wisdom for my own process. 

Ahhh…patience. This is the difficult one. Excitement, yes! Passion, run toward it! Fear lives only inside my struggle with patience. The stubborn warrior that craves action wakes up.What might I miss if I wait, think about possibilities far too much, for too long? I have nurtured some new hopes and dreams along through the winter. Now they must be protected from this old foe. I have known the pain and loss she suffered by her own hand, and I have compassion. Tell her to take a nap, for now. I must not forget what has been learned.

Just now the wind picks up and brings in a heavy shower of hail. “See what I mean!” I say. Things change so fast. Spring is such a flirt, creating a powerful desire in us. We all seek the movement. But the rain reminds us to pay attention.  The ponds and puddles are beyond full, the river is flooding. The ground is saturated. Trees will fall over now in the wind, their big root balls giving way, pulling up earth and rock. The mountain road is a mess, cut by the water boiling out of the ditches. Snow will fall again, no doubt. Now is the time to just be open, just allowing for a sweet, slow transition from stillness to action, from winter to spring.  This may be the time to go to the barn, listen to the song on the tin roof, and smell the sweet breath of my good mare, who is always patient.

beginning

Starting is the hard part. For someone of my age and experience that is not very computer savvy, I  have let myself be intimidated to begin this process. No more. Just like everything else in this life, it is learn as you go along, trial and error, and continuing to challenge yourself when you get to those uncomfortable places. Mistakes are opportunities.

Today  the rain lightly falls, but not enough to keep the birds from the feeders or the horses under the shedrow. I notice the bulbs have risen another inch from the soil, almost overnight w/ the milder temperatures. This is magick for me every year. Flowers and grass and weeds and vegetables recover their potential after a long cold rest and offer it up to us in wild rifeness and beauty in a thousand different ways. The earth soup is rich and smells alive as I slog through the barnlot in my muck boots, every step a prayer of gratitude for these longer, brighter days, on this thawing earth. We all together reach toward the sun, reminding us of the joy in growing and changing.

I sit w/ the black barn cat, Little Wing, on the bench by the peach tree, and drink my coffee. The day beckons. No longer do I hurry in from the cold, but linger to find one more thing to do outside before returning to the house.  The old yellow cat, Harley,(18) is determined to stay out most days, rather than on the cross stitch cushion inside. I have seen robins on the other side of the mountain when traveling to town, none in the yard yet, but any day now. And I am excited about the new chickens that will join us soon. The hibernation will soon be over, the earth’s  winter restoration complete for this cycle. Snow and ice will return w/ a slap, but the battle leans in our favor, and there is no stopping spring’s intention.