Spring starts so small—so tiny. The buds poke their tender green out of the tip of the branch. The bloom is just a hint of color. The air—chilly—cooling to marginally cold at night. Spring stutter-steps into it’s bloom. It gathers steam as the sap rises—gathering momentum in it’s upward flow toward the longer sun shining days. Drinking from within and embraced by the warming southern breeze from without, the tree colors its canopy with purple.
Is this the way spring returns to a frozen soul? Does the winter season of the heart creep away in the lingering sunlight? Is the warming presence of human touch necessary ingredient for the shoots of joy to bloom?
And the inner energy? Where does it come from? Is its resting place in the roots of the cold dark winter vacated when the warm light of human friendship lingers over a glass of wine? Does the hard ground drink in the spring rain of forgiveness and opens the heart to it’s courage—freeing it to come out of it’s hiding place?
I don’t know, but maybe patience is the warming spirit that frees the energy and opens the frightened heart to color, to pleasure, to the emerging shades of delight. Maybe joy visits when we open our heart to the warm love of friends and family. Maybe joy comes as a gift, slowly, haltingly, and we lean into it, noticing it when it is present.