Can it be March already? Our early daffodils think so.
March, nearly spring in the South, is a threshold, an invitation to newness and freshness yet unseen.
Transition is in the air—though on some days we still might shiver and protest “as the icy fang/And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind/ … bites and blows” upon our bodies (As You Like It, 2.1.12-16).
But the healing freshness of new life is nearly tangible in our starved imaginations—in some climates and souls more than in others, of course.
And so the word for March for me will always be: Wait!
March offers us lessons in its cleansing winds, its “lion” and “lamb” manifestations, its entrances and exits in the seasonal sweep of days.
Blustering blast or soft comforter? March combines these extreme qualities that will differ each year in their intensity and duration.
But these fluctuating days offer us a climate of expectation and dreams, a landscape that the soul knows well.
Gertrude S. Wister has pointed out that: “The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size.”
And March each year has the capacity to pull us gratefully out of winter’s outer and inner doldrums—only (sometimes) to throw us back into weeks of grayness and shadow, wistfulness and longing for the sun.
But this interim season says to me: Only wait! Give time a chance to sort your dreams and expectations.
All weathers are opportunities for growth and awareness, the blessing of deep rootedness that—as in the natural world—only the experience of contrasts can provide.
Henry Ward Beecher reminds us that: “Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it with the handle of anxiety or the handle of faith.”
“Choose,” says March. And begin to soar.
“Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.” —Sir Winston Churchill.
Which will we choose?
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