......don't go!

Yogis,

I have a Lenten Rose out front. She is known as being one of the earliest flowering plants, sending out her buds to welcome the Lenten season. A sure sign that spring is starting to knock at the door.

A few days ago, a whisper in the air told me to brush the leaves off the plant, get down on my hands and knees and look below. Lo and behold there they were. Several swollen buds with their heads bowed down beneath the green. I took a picture and sent it to my sister Amy with a note stating that according to Ms. Rose, spring is on her way.

As you all know I am only a neophyte in the ‘I love winter’ department, where my sister has always been all in on the joys of winter. Her response to my note lacked a spring like enthusiasm as you can imagine.

At that moment I realized that I too was not ready for spring. I texted back. Where is winter?

If any of you live in the Midwest you probably won’t agree with what I am about to say, but here in the Mid Atlantic winter never held us in her grip this year. Yes, we had a few cold weeks. Yes, the polar vortex made its way through, lasting a mere two days. We did indeed have several inches of snow this week, but more like a March storm, the very next day the great melt began.

All of my telltale signs of the severity of the winter season are pointing low on the scale. The number of times I have made soup. The number of days I wore a wool scarf around my neck in the house. How often I had to scrape my windshield. The amount of firewood used. In fact, I haven’t even started my annual 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle, which is a winter staple for me!

I haven’t had a gas bill that caused my jaw to drop. My sage still has some green leaves on it and having to watch my step on the ice hasn’t happened. Instead of soil that is hard as a rock, there is mud caked to my boots and tracked on the kitchen floor. My umbrella seems to have replaced the snow shovel as the must have item. No, I am not ready.

A forsythia tree down the street has bloomed, which most years makes my heart sing, but this year I whispered oh no. A walk along the river yesterday revealed Bluebells pushing their heads through the soil and I found myself wishing they would retreat.

Winter is the season for quiet. Alone time. Self-care and nourishment. The months to do the inner work to prepare for the outward forward movement of spring. Winter is time for me, and I haven’t had enough. I am not yet empty to be able to take in the fullness spring and summer offer.

So, don’t hate me, but I am hoping for a cold March.

‘There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you…. In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself’
                              ~Ruth Stout

Doing the inner work,
SARAH