Spring Obsession

it's rarely a single moment

Spring is my obsessive season. My socks get wet with the early morning garden dew because I’m impatiently checking the pots and beds for the tiniest hint of a sprout. My neighbors probably get tired of seeing me out in the yard in my pajamas, peering intently among the leaf litter for the first signs of life emerging from winter hibernation. My dog gets annoyed on our walks because I stop at every tree and look at every limb, trying to witness the moment that an imperceptible brown nub on the twig identifies itself as a bud. As the minutes of sunlight accumulate and the buds plump with spring rain, I take dozens of pictures, hoping one will catch the precise moment when the first twinge of green becomes visible.

There are several magnolia trees in my neighborhood, and I am definitely magnolia-maxxing. Long before the snow melts, I watch for signs of the progression from bare brown branch to thousands of fuzzy buds to flowers so fragrant I can smell them before I am close enough to see them. Every year, I fill my camera roll with pictures of the buds in various stages of growth, seeking the moment when the scales crack and reveal the pale pink treasure within.

I started going to yoga after we moved to Michigan. There happened to be a class that started right after morning school drop off, so I dropped my two oldest off, checked the two youngest into child watch, and joined the ranks of athleisure-wearing moms for the 9 AM session. That class no longer fits in my schedule, and we no longer belong to that gym, but I’ve continued yoga off-and-on for fifteen years. One of my favorite stretches is downward dog—it must be exactly what my muscles or my mind needs because I remember to do it almost every day. Last week, I realized that my heels actually touch the ground in that pose. I have no idea when that happened. Fifteen years ago, I had to bend my knees to get my heels to the floor. Now, somehow, without me noticing, it just happened.

Photo by Nikola Murniece on Unsplash

In the year after my divorce, I kept waiting for the moment of healing to come. I wanted to see the turning point that meant I was finally through the worst of it and could begin to live again. But I’ve never felt that moment or captured that blip in time when things went from unbearable to bearable. And yet, it is bearable. More than bearable. Life is good and beautiful and filled with joyful moments (and of course, also hard and lonely and tearful).

Sometimes there is a clear before and after: the man on the mat got up and walked. Lazarus walked out of the tomb. The temple curtain ripped in two. Thomas put his hand in Jesus’s wound and believed.

More often, though, it’s Eugene Peterson’s Long Obedience in the Same Direction. The small acts, the trifling choices, the cumulative quotidian beliefs. And then one morning, the radishes are actual plants instead of micro sprouts. The ground is littered with magnolia scales and the tree is in full bloom. My heels touch the ground in downward dog. Light is shining brightly through all the cracks and I can look around and be truly grateful. I’m not sure I’ve reached forgiveness yet, but maybe one morning I’ll wake up and see that, too.