Winter's invitation

A row of Spirea bushes divide the land between us and the neighbors. They are fairly ordinary, mildly unruly, and here is what I've noticed.  In the spring, they burst with tiny, white blossoms, inviting all the bees.  By summer, the flowers fade and they are full and resilient with green, becoming shelter and shade for many little chicks. Autumn toasts the edges with gold and rust.  But in winter, they look their best.  The leaves have thinned and juxtaposed against winter's monotone hues radiant, red berries hang from the branches.  In the bitter cold, in the face of tempest winds, these blooms of winter are radiant.

Trees shed their leaves in fall. We are dazzled by ever changing tones, but suddenly find bare trees unsettling, forgeting that during the dark and cool days, they store energy for spring.  They can not sustain healty foliage all year long.  They must rest before the world bursts forth once again. We have renamed dormancy as death and we cannot bear it in our culture of instant and eternal.  We are so violently shocked by the natural order of death, in a world that screams, "everything, forever!" Here we run into conflict.  A day is lived and it is finished.  A season plays out and transition inevitably arrives. We are conditioned to think we can ward off change, but waste our energy in this losing battle.  Winter is not one long, dreary funeral for flowers.  It is an invitation.

I step outside and notice so spiny branches, I cannot count them all.   I look down the hill and see new rows of houses that were hidden from my sight, months ago.  The sky stretches longer and instead of being cushioned by green, I find myself standing on this tiny patch of earth, tucked into endless plots of buildings, roads, and forests.  I am startled by the importance of my smallness in the silence.  There are no birds singing, they left on the southern winds.  The leaves do not rustle, they have been crushed into the earth, given as fuel, death for life.  I am far from trickling waters and crashing waves.  I stand alone with the only the sound of my breath, my body wrapped in warmth.  In this moment I have a choice.  When the music of the earth cannot be heard, will I remember the song in my heart.  

An opportunity stands before us in winter, when the bustling signs of life are stripped away.  We are invitated to look inside and consider what remains.  Winter is a promise, but it demands an effort. It requires that we not be blinded by sight.  We are beckoned to step out into the quiet world and instead of seeing death, remember that we are alive.  

If your song has been lost in the chaos, listen for it now.  The dreams that burn inside have not been extinguished. Believe in yourself, as you take this very breath.

May I offer this, before all of this goals and plans, before your dazzling, creative brilliance unfolds,  take a walk in the great hushed world and listen. Something beautiful awaits. Only you can hear it.