In Praise Of Spring Cleaning

Some people may dread Spring cleaning. Not I, especially not this year. After a year that challenged all of us, and a winter that seemed endless, Spring arrived on a wave of sunshine, brilliant blue skies, and temperatures that hit 60 degrees. To add to my delight, my beautiful 14 year old granddaughter, Gabriella (or Gabby as we call her), came over Friday night to sleep over and, and on the first day of Spring, helped  me tackle the dirt and grit of a winter that soiled our spirits as well as our homes. Thankfully, my tiny apartment is small enough to get the most demanding chores done in one day. 

The spring cleaning chore I always want to get done first is to wash the windows. My home has been shut up for months except for a few days last week when it was warm enough to open the windows in the afternoon for a while. There is something about clean windows that look out on to a vista of blue sky and green grass that warms my heart. It's like cleaning out the sadness and doubt that had set in all winter and opening my heart to let the fresh air of hope and possibility in. Mother Nature cooperated and gave us lovely, warm temperatures so that once they were clean, we were able to keep them open to air the apartment and let everything and everyone inside breathe a sigh of relief. Of course the less pleasant tasks like cleaning cobwebs from the corners and vacuuming out the heating vents were accomplished, but it was the sights and smells of a spring day that made the rest of it a little less daunting. 

There is something about being able to see clearly that changes how we look at the world. This goes not only for windows covered in a film of winter dust and dirt, but of the film of doubt, distrust, and feelings of hopelessness that hide behind the windows of our hearts. Once we make a firm decision to wipe away the negative and throw open the doors of our hearts to what is possible, the world looks new again.

As for me, my windows will be open again today as the forecast is for warmer temperatures for at least the next few days, although I do not doubt that March will show her cold side again before she is gone for the year. But at least I have seen the light, and felt the sun, and know that it's out there just waiting for me to claim it again one warm, sunny day.

And so it is. 

The Wearing Of The Green

 

I love the color green, especially right now. All of our snow has finally melted away and the grass beneath is starting to perk up. Although there are frigid temperatures still ahead and more than likely some more snow before it's all said and done, there are more and more days when the color green starts to show itself off in different shades on the trees, shrubs and grass. Luckily, our Irish friends and relations have chosen the month of March to show off the color green as no others can .... in shamrocks.

Shamrocks are known as trifoliate plants, meaning plants who have leaves divided into three leaflets. They are included in the group of plants know as wood sorrel  or any of the various plants of the pea family. It is said that St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, chose the shamrock as a symbol of the Holy Trinity of the Christian church because of its three leaves. For me it has a place of honor in the month of March not just because of St. Patrick's Day, but because by mid-March those of us in the colder climates are in dire need of something green we can fixate on, to get us through the next few weeks until the green shoots of the daffodils, snowdrops, and crocus start to peek up through the warmed, soft soil. The shamrock brings us that lovely shot of green and with it the hope that, perhaps, this year spring will come just a bit earlier and we will be surrounded again by all the lovely shades of green in Mother Nature's paint box. 

And so it is. 

A Different Kind of March Madness

 

Woke up this morning to 9 degrees. The forecast is for high 50's to maybe even 60 by Wednesday. Welcome to upstate New York's own brand of March Madness. It's that time when Mother Nature's identity crisis is in full bloom. Alas, nothing else is.

This has got to be the hardest month for me to get through as I've said before ... many, many times, which tells you how crazy it makes me. So I try to look for some little thing that will perk up my spirits and remind me that, regardless of how it feels outside. a.k.a 9 degrees, winter really will end and spring really will arrive. Enter one smart and wonderful 6th grade teacher.

Yesterday while having Sunday dinner with my daughter and her family, my 11 year old grandson brought me a package he had received from his English teacher. It was a bag of potting soil and a tiny envelope with some sunflower seeds. His assignment was to plant the seeds and nurture the plant until it could be planted outside. Once upon a time I used to volunteer at his elementary school as part of their garden project and we worked together on the school gardens together. So he asked me to help him give his seeds a good, healthy start. If a heart can smile, mine did yesterday.

What a wonderful thing his teacher did, not just for the gift of the soil and the seeds, but for the sentiments and the lesson that came with it. As tired as we all are of being stuck in the house for a year, and with spring just around the corner, I cannot even imagine what the children are going through. Think of being a kid, away from your friends, your sports, your sense of community, and the feel of real participation in your classroom, some of them for a year, while winter seems to drag on endlessly. Then, one day, the mailman brings you a gift beyond measure: a promise in a bag, a promise that spring will come, and that out of all this something beautiful will grow. That's more than some seeds in an envelope and a bag of dirt; that's a lesson on life to grow with. 

So I ask you: what can you plant today to grow into something beautiful tomorrow? 

And so it is. 

A Little Birdie Told Me

 

"If I keep a green branch in my heart, a singing bird will come."

Chinese Proverb

I came across this quote the other day and it really stuck with me. Having heard actual birdsong the other morning, even though it was just one bird who seemed to be calling to his mate, it gave me a reason to start hoping that I was going to hear more birds singing their little hearts out in the near future. Of course, I am as much of a realist as I am a romantic and know that, after over 25 years living in upstate New York, March is the month with a serious identity disorder, flopping back and forth from winter to spring all month long. The worst blizzards I've ever experienced have happened in March in my neck of the woods. Yet I hold out hope just the same that maybe if March comes in like a lion - which today's forecast of rain, high wind advisories and plunging temperatures would suggest - perhaps it will beat a fast retreat and the lamb will come home to stay sooner rather than later. 

I find that all my senses "spring" back to life (pardon the pun) at this time of year. Yesterday as I went to pull the curtains closed at the end of the day, I caught that special scent that soil has after a rain, when it has been frozen and buried under snow for so long and has finally thawed out. It is a loamy scent that calls to us old frustrated gardeners and teases us with dreams of snowdrops and daffodils pushing through the soil. My face felt the softer breezes yesterday even in the rain, the kind that kisses your cheeks instead of pinching them with cold. Last night as I was rummaging through my produce bin for a tomato to slice on to my sandwich, I wondered if the asparagus were out yet, that first veggie of the season that heralds spring. My taste buds began to salivate when I thought of the taste of them sauteed with garlic, oil, and some fresh mushrooms over a scoop of penne pasta, just the way I liked them. Each and every one of my senses were telling me: "Hang in there. Spring is almost here."

Maybe we will still get that March snow storm. Maybe that rain outside right now will turn to ice and snow by tomorrow. All I know is that if I keep that green bough in my heart, sooner or later, the singing bird will come.

And so it is. 

Faith In A Seed

 

"Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders."

~ Henry David Thoreau

If you were to go back over the all the blog posts from the last 7 or 8 years that this blog has been around, you will see that I have written a blog post with this title, quote, and picture before. It has come to mind again this year, at this particular time, as I sit here at my desk watching yet another round of snow and wondering, as I do every February, if winter will ever release its hold on us and allow spring to come in. As if everything and everyone else in the world right now hasn't had enough of the sadness and sacrifice, winter this year seems particularly long and challenging ... or maybe we're so used to it all that it seems that way. While I'm a total believer in the whole issue of climate change and how it is manifesting on our planet, right now I'd give anything to be able to plant a seed and watch something new and promising spring up from it.

How do we continue to keep our sanity through all of this? How do we make it until spring finally does get here, not only the season of spring, but the season of hope realized in life without masks and being shut off from our loved ones? Faith. That thing that we hold on to when everything else collapses around us. Faith that despite all of the snow and the cold, spring will eventually get here. Faith that one by one, shot by shot, and day by day, the winter that has been our lives will finally start to move out and spring will once again return for us to plant new seeds, grow new lives, and encourage us to expect something wonderful.

Last week for Valentine's Day I received two little tins containing seed starters:

The "Pooh" written on the bottom is the nickname I've had for my now adult daughter since she was a child. Just as she has grown from the little seedling of childhood into a beautiful, life-giving branch on the family tree, so, too, these little tins of seeds and growing medium, watered and place under the warm, safe, grow light, will grow into herbs that will not only season my meals and drinks, but feed my soul.

I invite you to plant some seeds this week. Maybe you can plant a seed for good health, a new or better job, a new appreciation for life and loved ones, and faith. Yes, let's plant some seeds of faith and watch what we can grow!

And so it is.

A Time And A Season

 

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."

Ecclesiates Chapter 3

No matter how much we grumble, wish, affirm, and pray, spring will get here when it will and not before. I can't tell you how many conversations I've had with Mother Nature over the seeming unfairness of this part of the world always getting stuck with endless winters only to be followed by springs that seem to, well, "spring" by (pardon the pun). As a retired outdoor gardener I can't tell you how many times I've seen occasions like the picture above, when the bulbs finally start to push their way through the earth and into the light because we've had an early February or March thaw, only to be hijacked by one more blast of winter. The fact that we humans have contributed to the harsh climate changes we've seen over the last decade or so seems to never enter our minds when our favorite crocus finally blooms only to wake up one morning to see it covered in snow. Spring will get here in full force when it is ready. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose no matter how much we wish we could change it.

The same holds true in our own lives. Sometimes we try to push things through to "make something happen," when clearly it wasn't meant to be. It's all well and good to use tools like affirmations, visualizations, mantras, etc., but often, when things don't happen when we think they should, it's because we aren't ready to handle it even though we've been repeating our affirmations 200 times a day. How much more will we appreciate what we desire if it comes when we are ready and able to receive it. We've all heard the stories of people who wail "If only I could win the lottery all of my troubles would be over," only to hear that, after they actually do win the lottery, they are miserable and back where they started within a year. What we desire will come to us in the perfect time, space, and circumstances when we let go of trying to control everything and leave room for growth. Just like putting a seed in the ground, we can't expect it to turn into a flower the next day. To everything there is a season, and a time, and a purpose. 

And so it is.

Why Worry?

 

I'm sitting at my desk looking out at the snow coming down once again. On a more positive note, at least it's not blowing like a hurricane as it has been the last few days. My neighbor, the big tree next door, is being spared that assault for today.

I worry a lot about that tree. It's a huge, huge pine tree, 50 feet at least. In the three years that I've been living here it has taken a distinct tilt southward from where it was when I first moved in after all the windy beatings it has taken. We get some pretty good storms up here, both summer storms and winter blizzards, and 50 mph or higher wind gusts are not out of the question. While I'm certainly concerned for the house next door, and the people in it, should all or part of that giant come down, I'm just as worried about about that old tree itself. It has been here for more years than any of the houses or people in this neighborhood, or in this part of the country for that matter. It has seen decades and decades of history come and go and still it stood, giving shade and protection to the tiny creatures that call it home, and pine cones for their use. It has lived through wars, presidents of both parties, disease and disasters, and still it hangs in there.

I suppose I shouldn't worry about that tree. Chances are it still has a few more good years in it. Should the unfortunate befall it, it will go on to provide wood for people's fireplaces to keep them warm, and shredded bark to protect our children and grandchildren in the local parks, or as mulch for our gardens. It will go on caring for others because that's what it was put here for. When you talk about looking at the Big Picture, no one has a better perspective than Mother Nature. 

We spend so much time worrying about things that we have absolutely no control over. We worry about what might happen, or what happens to others, or what shouldn't have happened. 

"That the birds of worry and care fly over your head, this you cannot change, but that they build nests in your hair, this you can prevent." ~ Chinese Proverb

Nothing is written in stone. Nothing is a sure thing. As I wrote last week, death and taxes are the only things we can be sure of. That we spend so much of our lives worrying doesn't have to be a given either. It's taking the time we have and throwing it out of the window like yesterday's garbage.

"Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy." ~ Leo Buscaglia 

That tree will probably outlive me and all of my neighbors. Worrying about it won't stop that. What I can continue to do is enjoy watching it, giving thanks for its beauty, its life of service to other living things, and all the lessons it teaches me every day. What do I learn from trees? Well, trees never worry about being as good as the next tree, about being acceptable to themselves and the world, or that they aren't as important, or useful, or their lives aren't as valid as, say, a mountain or a river. They teach me character, nobility, humbleness, and grace. They teach me to grab each day as if it were my last and live it with all the love and authenticity I can. And if the day does come when it is no longer standing outside my window, I will make sure to grab a branch to keep inside here with me right next to this desk so that I can remember all those lessons. Trees may come and go, but their lessons, like their lives, live on in others.

And so it is.