To Straddle the Seasons

Maybe I will find the words I need to say here. Something about the leaves on the tree sparkling in the newness of spring, coming into their vibrant brilliance in the summer, blazing and/or fading into color in the fall and their quiet dearth in winter. I am reminded of David Whyte’s poem “Cleave” Like the act of being born, breathing in this world while lamenting the one we’ve lost. Always one foot, one thought, one memory of the world I want to return to while being bodily in the world I profess to desire and hoping one day to stand fully present in the world where all comes together in the fullness of the moment. The paradox of this life is we were born not wanting to be here, crying for the womb we left while simultaneously gazing wide-eyed at all the new, all the possibility. So maybe I can forgive myself for carrying that forward. I was literally born that way. Maybe I can forgive myself for finding the fullness of presence an impossible goal - but something for which to be grateful when I glimpse it. Maybe I can forgive myself for being the leaves on the tree of my soul. As I am tight and unable to stretch and grow and I want to give up - maybe I can recognize I will always come back to a place where I haven’t blossomed yet. A winter of my faults, a sloughing off of my self beliefs so that I can stretch and grow into the shiny brightness of my spring, a welcoming back of me to myself. May the summer of my heart grow longer as I find the steadiness in knowing who I am. May I not fight the bright burning of all I have become so that I may rest and see it all again. Through it all, may I know gratitude that I have the gift of getting to do it at all. It is all a love story, in the end.