There is a quietness in the house this late Sunday morning. A stillness that settled in when the last car pulled away from the gravel drive. The past 4 days have been filled with the noise of boys, ages 1 year to a newly minted 14 year old. There was also the noise of grownups laughing and talking and reconnecting and finding time to just sit in the sun sipping cold beers and icy cocktails. There were screams and squeals and cries of, “FISH ON” or, “I CAUGHT ANOTHER ONE!!” that rang across the lake waters. There was the sound of T-Bone steaks hitting the grill and the pop of corks from crispy white and lush, deep red wine bottles. There was the cracking of Dungeness crab legs brought from the San Juan Islands by much loved family and the , “oh man, this is so good” sounds of eating spot prawns pulled from those same island waters. Every sound was a love song.

I am walking through the stillness of the house today and see unmade beds, piles of towels, and half deflated balloons. There are red stained wine glasses, mounds of half eaten sweets, and a brown dirt ring in the tub where one very dirty 7 year old boy took a much needed bath. The floors are crunchy with stepped-on baby crackers and grass and leafs from backyard play. My garbage can is heaped full and I am grateful the truck swings through tomorrow for pick up. The dishwasher is full and running a load but on the counter is another load just waiting for its turn. There are air mattresses to deflate and tuck away, toys to be put back in their cupboards, and balls to be stored away outside. And every task will, for me, be a labor of love.

Watching them all drive away I could only think, “I wish you were just getting here”.

Love looks like piles of laundry, half-drank cups of milk, and full garbage bins. Love looks like toys left on the floor and unmade beds, and dirty dishes.

Love looks like family.

I miss you all already.

 

This is our first spring here in our little town in the southeast corner of Washington State. My man, Jerry, of course spent many springs here as a boy and he has a primal connection to all the rebirth occurring around us. The earth is green; the very air is green. You can breathe in the chlorophyll and taste an earthy newness at the back of your throat. If you were to stop and roll around in one of the wheat fields you would rise up covered in that newness. If you were to stop and just lay in one of the wheat fields you would feel the earth giving birth to another year.

Winter is leaving. It’s letting go of the trees and they are relaxing from that grip and opening their arms to the sun and wind. Life is swelling at the tips of the swaying branches, tight buds just waiting to break out in song to a melody only they know, to a rhythm that signals the end of winter. I too am letting go. Letting go of the weight of loss and sadness. I have been grieving for the loss of siblings, parents, work I once loved, and a home in the city we left behind. And I am finding that I have a newness in me that is coming to life here in our little town. I feel the greening of my soul, the possibilities of all that is to come.

Hope is always at the heart of what I write about. Hope is the very thing we cannot live without, like air, hope is a life sustainer. Without air our body suffocates and without hope our soul is smothered, snuffed out like a candle.

Spring is the authentic, tangible embodiment of hope. Just when you think it couldn’t be any colder, any darker, any wetter, or any drearier, along comes a small green shoot to remind you that things will change. All it takes is that first crocus or daffodil to poke one little green arm out of the ground to test the air and we are giddy with anticipation for what will come next. It’s nature’s way of showing us what hope looks like even when we cannot yet feel it’s complete beauty. We know that the rest of that flower is there, under the dirt, in the dark, composing itself, preparing to rise toward the sun and fully open its whole essence, if only for a brief time. And it does that without questioning its purpose or reason. It does it trusting that the warmth and light will be there.

I don’t know what this year will bring me. I only know that what I feel right now feels very much like that little green shoot reaching out towards the warmth. I am tweaking some things inside me, in the dark part of me that I hope will soon bloom into something more colorful and bright. It’s Spring and if I just follow the patterns of all that is growing and awakening around me, I will be in the natural flow of hope. And what could be better than that?