I really do live in a tree house. It’s built into the side of a wooded hill. I sit at a small table in front of a west-facing, second story window and watch the scene change as the hours and days flow by. My closest neighbors wear feathers or fur and come in all sizes and their visits are gifts.
But then, isn’t everything?
(Was that a “Huh!” I heard? A snort of sorts? Listen. Just because something doesn’t suit your fancy or meet your expectations or go the way you wanted it to go doesn’t mean it’s not exactly what you needed. Everything has its upside. Sometimes it just takes some distance to see it. It’s that “can’t see the forest for the trees” thing.)
I learn a lot from the trees, whether I can see the forest from within it or not. It’s kind of like this experience we’re having of being human. It’s impossible to see the whole forest from here. The best you can do is get a glimpse of it now and then from atop some peak you’ve climbed. But you know it’s there, the forest. And you know it expands farther than you can imagine and is still but a fragment of what may well be an endless whole.
Anyway, what I started to share with you is how much I have been enjoying the gifts March is bringing. It’s a month of such changing moods. One hour is dreary and dark, the next is bright with sun. There’s stillness and high winds, snow and unaccustomed warmth. And beneath the constant changes is the great progression of the seasons. You can feel the push of springtime as it struggles to be born.
I’ve been watching grasses and the leaves of flowers poke up through the soil. They push aside earth and stones, the blanket of last year’s leaves, the twigs and cones fallen from the spruces. One fragile leaf can do that, one little blade of grass. The life force is a powerful thing.
Still, I wondered one day, what prompts them to do that? What prompts any of us to persist, to push against the darkness and confusion that blocks us from being what we want to be? “The light,” my mind answered; “the warmth.” And then a quieter voice spoke. “Hope,” it said.
Hope. I let myself taste the word. It’s like a wish or a dream, but more. It’s a flash of certainty that what you most long for is possible and real. It’s like that glimpse from the top of the peak where you see the forest stretching into an infinite sky.
Is there darkness before you? Are heavy boulders in your way? Are sharp winds whipping your face? Are you pelted with cold rain and a muddy stretch of road? Keep going, the leaves of birthing flowers say. Push onward, say the little blades of grass. Ahead there is warmth, and love, and light. Keep on.
From my tree house, I wish you a week drenched with hope. Keep on.
Warmly,
Susan