This is the time of year in New England when we search for signs—the beginnings of a crocus stem, the lengthening of light, the yellow grass shifting to green—signs that spring is tenaciously taking ahold. Spring is a time of emergence. And spring in New England reminds me that emergence can be tough work, like all birth.
At 53, I wonder about my own capacity for emergence. Specifically, I wonder about whether I am able, like the ground, to soften some of my stiff inclinations in order to let the new emerge. I could, for example, be more easygoing. My father used to say about my mother: I’m glad she feels strongly about things; I just wish she didn’t have to feel so strongly about everything. My husband recognizes me in this statement.

Being easier-going is a letting go. Winter, brittle in its beauty, is a hunkering, a frozen clench. And winter’s hand off to spring seems recalcitrant, a bit of an extended battle. Similarly, my own righteous tendencies are reluctant to cede control to a more don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff attitude. In fact, I am inclined to believe that this giving in, or so it feels, is a loss of integrity. It can feel like caring a little less. It may, however, just be a deeply ingrained way of being. And so these last months, I have been trying to cultivate the planting of a new let-it-go response, one that is not automatic nor yet fully trusted. Like most emergence it takes effort and more than one try.

And so I look to the crocus, the sturdy harbinger of spring that persists despite the fickle weather of April. The crocus suggests spring in the way that emergence asks us to imagine what does not yet seem possible. And this, of course, is about faith. Faith that spring will come. Faith that I can bring forth new ways of responding. Faith that it will be all right.