You’d think spring would talk to me on a brilliant, wind-danced sunny day like yesterday. But…no. Here she is, whispering in my ear about scents and possibilities and how much she loves waking up after a nice, long sleep.
She’s so close, you know. Closer than the still monochrome landscape reveals. She loves this bit. The almost-ness of it. The yearning. The slow swelling from safe obscurity into inescapable presence. The dance from presence to emblazoned, laughing “here I am”-ness, while her sister autumn quietly does the opposite dance in her southern hemispheres.
It’s code, you see, signaling bodies it’s time to emerge, to rise. All bodies: plant, furred, feathered, carapaced, human. It’s nature’s cue to push through bark and soil what has gestated all these quiet winter months. To reveal whatever’s been silently forming to the equally sleepy-eyed neighbors.
This morning has been about tapping in to these waning days of water energy. Letting flow beyond-and-under-thought thinking. To listening from within a stirring stillness.
Yesterday, someone asked me what it meant to be a crone. For me, a day like this is the perfect definition. Immersed in my body and senses, drawing on my long corridor of life experiences, growing something new from the multitude of seeds planted in my body of work.
Being a crone, for me, means being a woman beautifully and dynamically balanced among body and thought, senses and logic, emotion and practicalities. Grounded in reality and possibility. Guided by the acquired wisdom of not only this life, but the full 13.8 billion years of known life in this Universe.
Not doing all of this perfectly, mind you. Simply doing it the best I can, as often as I can.