The return of spring, time of holy equality. The landscape is still winter rough and wind-blown. Walk outside and feel the raw possibility. The world is made of stories, and we need to change the narrative. Poised in the season’s symmetry, ask: what does another world look like? Oak Chezar WeMoon Calendar 2020
It has become a tradition for my seven-and-half-year-old grandson and me. Each time I visit our kids and grandkids in Moscow, Idaho, my grandson and I claim a night together at La Quinta Motel. It started six years ago, one evening, as I was saying my good-byes to him and his mom and dad before leaving their small townhouse to make my way to the motel, when, all of a sudden, he toddled to the door, clutched my leg and began to point emphatically at his coat, insisting on coming with me. I’m not sure if it’s the freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies the staff offers us, the excitement of a big screen TV or our special time together that has kept this tradition alive, but he and I have carried it forward and into my most recent visit west two weeks ago when we found ourselves once again sharing our La Quinta overnight. After unpacking our books and pajamas, I set off for the bathroom. I had a project. That day at the Co-op, I had splurged on locally-made facial products, firming facial toner, nectar serum, brightening eye cream, overnight moisturizer for mature skin. “I may look younger when I come out!” I announced to my grandson before shutting the door. “It’s going to be exciting!” I added. Though it was exciting to care for my sometimes-neglected skin, I had been joking. And I thought he knew it. But when I opened the door, he walked up close, looked at me carefully for what seemed like a long while. And then he pronounced with the utmost of sincerity, “Grandma, you look the same!”
I tell you this, not only because I love my grandson, his honesty, his heart that always seems to be open, his ability to not give a rip what a face looks like; I also share this snippet from my recent Idaho trip because sometimes change takes time and transformation in process doesn’t look like change at all. It is now two weeks later and I honestly think my skin might seem a bit healthier, my under-eyes a bit brighter, and, ultimately, it’s not that important to me. On this first day of spring, a day where it is rain-snowing and gray-skied and not that spring-like at all, what is important to me is to remember that transformation is taking place, deep inner transformation. As we all hunker in for a while, as we practice what we now call social-distancing, as it seems that our towns and cities have screeched to a complete stop, change is in the air. Beneath this seeming stand-still, the earth is waking up. There is a thrumming, drumming, pulsating, health-producing dance taking place under the surface. The trees feel it — the sap is beginning to rise. The animals feel it — the red squirrels are chasing each other up and down the back yard white pine. And we will feel it too, this waking up, if not now, soon. What raw possibilities are rising in me? I wonder. And in you? What new narratives do I want to tell myself as I awaken to my inner springtime? What new narratives do you want to tell yourself? And as a culture, as a world so deeply connected to each other, so deeply a part of this waking earth, what new narratives do we want to spread across the cities and towns, the mountains and seas of this beloved planet that we call our home?