The Sweet Gum tree outside my kitchen has finally leafed. It is always a “late bloomer” and the leaves are still unfolding a bit, up here on the hill where I live. I love being present to the greening of that tree, though it makes me wait each year, and though I am already missing the stark outlines of the branches against the grey winter sky.
For me, this is a time between. Though winter is so clearly over, whatever summer will bring is only beginning to emerge. But there are signs. The ferns along my front path, planted by previous inhabitants of our house, have put out a profusion of new bright green leaves. They haven’t produced new leaves like this since we’ve lived here. I thought they were dying. But something in this season has called out new life in them.
There are spiritual challenges in navigating this time between. The familiar past can call to us, as imperfect as we may know it to have been. Impatience can trouble our spirits. We may too easily put our dreams on hold once again just to regain a sense of comfort. We know how to live with injustice.
I think we are called to hold ourselves in this time between. I mean that in two ways. I mean to hold ourselves and one another with care. I also mean to resist the call to restore the past, without inspection of its longstanding flaws…to hold, to allow ourselves to remain in this liminal space, giving time for a new creation to form. We need time for our vision to clear and our commitment to Beloved Community to be clarified. We need some time and space to move through the grief and the loss before new life can spring up.
Another poem by Jan Richardson was my companion this morning, gazing outward first, at the Sweet Gum and the ferns, then inward at my own impatience.
Stay
- by Jan Richardson
I know how your mind
rushes ahead,
trying to fathom
what could follow this.
What will you do,
where will you go,
how will you live?
You will want
to outrun the grief.
You will want
to keeping turning toward
the horizon,
watching for what was lost
to come back,
to return to you
and never leave again.
For now,
hear me when I say
all you need to do
is to still yourself,
is to turn toward one another,
is to stay.
Wait
and see what comes
to fill
the gaping hole
in your chest.
Wait with your hands open
to receive what could never come
except to what is empty
and hollow.
You cannot know it now,
cannot even imagine
what lies ahead,
but I tell you
the day is coming
when breath will
fill your lungs
as it never has before,
and with your own ears
you will hear words
coming to you new
and startling.
You will dream dreams
and you will see the world
ablaze with blessing.
Wait for it.
Still yourself.
Stay.
Blessings,
Bill