spring gonna spring

To hear Brandi read the essay instead, click here: https://youtu.be/iQMJ-dkg-hA

Spring is trying to spring, but the cold is putting up a fight. My hook by the door is loaded with all the seasonal gear at once: thick puffer coats and wool hats, light rain coats, heavy vests, and sunny visors. It is basically nonfunctional, and spits things on the floor after I hang them there, precariously. The American South, where I live, is nearly groaning for the release that dependable sunshine and warmer weather will bring.

My parents love Spring. They come home from working days to spend another shift outside. They weed beds, prune trees, spread mulch, cultivate vines, and plant a massive garden. Determined to grow 80% of what they eat most of the year, they don’t plant plants. They plant seeds. My mom—who calls herself a “domestic goddess,” and is one—has a work table in her sun room. On it, she grows fruits and vegetables from seeds in old strawberry containers. (She has 13 grandchildren, but she is always hungry for more.) She plants her little seeds, coaxing them to life in the warmth of her house, praying over them as she moves them outside, burying them in the earth. The infuriatingly relentless cycle of April frosts have killed some of her seed babies, but she persists. The work table again becomes full of soil, then sprouts, then thin green stalks, reaching for the sky.

Spring is hard for us, full of memories that brought bad news. “This was the day they told us…” “This is the month it felt like we raced death to find more life, more time together.” It isn’t surprising to me when Mom, hands in the dirt, cultivating life, looks up and shares that death is on her mind. It often is. This weekend, she showed me her little green wonders, growing up and away. She has a magical gift about her, and can access awed excitement about nearly anything. She demanded I come closer, wanting me to catch her amazement over the plant she helped grow. She soon reached a new level of joy, turning toward me, her face inches from a fragile stalk of oregano. “Look! That is a part of the dead seed, sitting on top of the highest little leaf. She wears it like a hat, the seed that died to give her life. Isn’t that amazing? All the little deaths we face have the potential to grow a new thing within.”

She talks like that, part oracle, part enchanted pied piper, part nomadic weirdo in the desert. This weekend, I was here for it. She found the little dead seed hats all over her plants, and she kept reminding me that we are people made for cycles who prefer straight lines. Most of us don’t get to know the why or pick the when of our stories. As Spring keeps peeking through the clouds only to hide away again, I’m trying to remember that on most days, the best I can do is to show up for the glimpse of the sun. To pay attention as my energy and work and mood and relationships cycle through. To grieve the small deaths and to celebrate the tiny new life. Enjoy the small wins, dear friends, and keep looking for Spring.