The spring period is such an extraordinary time of movement and growth. Bearing witness to the elements–the great fire of the sun, the fluid rivers of rain and water, the density of the earth’s soil and lightness of her seedlings, the infinite and ethereal nature of the heavens–what a joy to behold.
For without the juicy nectars of summer’s growth, deterioration and decay of autumn and hibernative rooting inward of winter, spring would have no breathing room. It would instead lie stagnant, congested by the over-abundance of growth turned to smothering rot. The nature of the universe and all animate forms of life can be reduced to an arc of transformation; the exhale and the inhale of life. Uncomfortable moments, challenging moments of staying in places that seemingly never end or move too rapidly for us to grasp, are equally necessary in this fluid cycle of life and death.
The potency of this organic unfolding has never resonated more clearly for me than in this moment. In late February and into an unseasonably winter-like March, I witnessed my physicality deteriorate. My body, not unlike a tree preparing for the crude, cold winter, began to shut down. Autonomic functions like breathing, something so innate to living and dying, were reduced to a minimum as attention was directed to managing pain. Every cell of my body bonded together to work on behalf of my failing liver, not unlike leaves falling from a tree in autumn to direct more energy to its ever-important roots so essential for nutrition and regrowth.
Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, I begin again to rebuild. My body quickly reallocates resources to the normalising every day functions like breath and digestion. As spring finds its way breathing life into unfurling blossoms of vibrant colours and delicate scents, my feet too find the ground, my mind resting in the preciousness of each moment. I welcome the continuum of the temporal cycle of birth, growth and death. The only thing we can be sure of is change.
To everything, turn, turn, turn There is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die A time to plant, a time to reap A time to kill, a time to heal A time to laugh, a time to weep There is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. -The Byrds