It was a raw day in the middle of March. Looking through the window, the snow had receded enough where I could finally see the crocuses poking through the ground.
“The crocuses are here, the crocuses are here!!” I exclaimed as I gave them an extended singular ovation, pirouetting around the living room in my excitement. I’ve done this every year in my life ever since I can remember.
Walking through our yard, I was seduced by the mystery of March. The dormancy of winter hung undeniably in the air, yet so did the velocity of spring.
And that somehow, as the garden always does, connected me with my weighty question of late: What am I going to do with my life?
A contemplation both abundant and daunting, both fortunate and tragic.
Infertility and the loss of my children have altered me in ways still unfolding. New skill sets I never aspired to have, far reaching perspectives I never asked for, fragile wounds and vulnerabilities I did not invite that need to be tended to. While I try to own it all anyway. The alchemy of this seems to be vagueness.
“If I have to do it without you, I don’t really care what I do.”
My soul whispers its secret to the wind and to the dogwood tree that stands guard over our embryos as I tenderly stroke its still brittle branches. I congratulate it on surviving its first winter, and a harsh one at that.
March has always been one of my least favorite months. It is uncomfortable here in the northeast United States. And long. At a point weary and wanting for drastic alteration, March drops just a sliver of a shift while mostly teasing you with what isn’t yet.
Seasons carry much variation but also a level of definition and certainty. Life after loss does not. So as I explore through my yard I wonder, how long will my March last? Another month? Years? Or perhaps this is just my life. Forward flinging sparks of passion and desire forever tugged on by what should have been.