The Suddenly of Spring

New mothers are subject to a good deal of advice. Some is welcome, while others not so much. A phrase shared with me was, “The days are long but the years are short.” It applies to more than raising children.

In seasons of stifling grief; on cold winter days; and during profound illness, the hope of better days seems far away. And, yet, even in the midst of these, there are clearings in the clouds. While we were mired in uncertainty, other things were growing. What we thought would always remain, somehow, suddenly changes.

Spring is like that. One day is raw and chilling. The next day, daffodils fill a hillside. What was once merely a fallen tree branch, now serves as a guidepost for snowdrops.

This year, I was determined to seek out signs of hope, of growth, of beauty in the midst of sorrow. I’ve driven to Brandywine Park waiting for the cherry trees to blossom. Finally, suddenly, there are signs. The rain was worth it. The cold days—when growth seemed elusive—were all worth it.

I walked beneath these trees yesterday and looked up to see the blue sky on the other side of the buds. The contrast was stark. I stood in that moment, transfixed at such beauty. I breathed in their scent. I noticed the sounds of cars travelling on nearby I-95. I heard the rush of water on Brandywine Creek. I listened inadvertently to a woman on her cell phone, having a heated conversation nearby, and the blaring bass coming from a car that had pulled into a parking space. It was an integration of sight and sound; fragrance and communion.

I am reminded that both and all can coexist.