Primavera

Primavera always makes me think "first green." In Italian, "verde" is green, and a little etymological hunting seems to confirm that at least some word hunters believe the Latin words for "spring" (ver) and "green" (viride) may go back to some shared root. it would certainly make sense.

This post isn't about the first green, but the blossoms that precede the green leaves. But primavera dictionarily means "spring," and that's what this is about. The coming to life after a period of dormancy. The colors after the more "meno-chrome" winter, if I may create a new word not for  the monochrome state of having only one color, but the winter-in-the-South state of having less color.

The grass was still actually monochrome at the time I took these pictures a couple of weeks ago, except for those few little green weeds.

We always had a flowering quince in the yard when I was growing up, so I wanted to have one in our yard here. When I called the nursery, the owner didn't have the brighter, solid peachey red I was hoping for, but he suggested this one instead.

I took a chance, based on his description over the phone.

And am so glad I did! It's really beautiful, and even though it's still a young thing,

this year it had more blossoms than the two years before.

I'm beginning to feel as if my own mind, body, and heart are coming to life again after a long winter.

I started this degree in 2012, the same year my mom began having serious health problems and hospitalizations that went on throughout the next four years. So it's been a very, very unusual five years since then. I often felt I couldn't give enough to school because of the family situation. And I often felt I couldn't give enough to my family because of school.

And yet, somehow the energy kept coming, and we made it through to my mom's beautiful and victorious ending. And I recently defended my thesis project, and am very close to bringing that to an ending. Not nearly the same kind of beauty and victory, but an ending I'll be thankful for.

Since the defense (on February 27), I have struggled with an exhaustion of mind, body, and spirit. I did stay up pretty late a few nights the week before the defense, but i don't think it's just that immediate sleep deprivation. I think it's five years of tiredness finally feeling free to make itself felt. Throughout the past month, I have just not felt capable of doing anything beyond what I absolutely had to do--and occasionally have cancelled commitments because I was just too tired even for those routine activities.

It has been, I must say, a wonderful thing to experience spring this year. I always love spring, but this year especially it is like a promise. A promise that new life will return, because it always does. It doesn't depend on the flowers or the birds or the trees to make it happen. The Creator and Sustainer makes it happen, year after year after year.

And so even though I must of course do what I can to get my sleep, eat well, rest, drink water, make time for the refreshment of friends and family--it doesn't depend on me to somehow make my energy return. I can trust that it will.

And little by little, just in the past week or so, it has been happening.

A couple of mornings I've waked up and felt alive, refreshed, eager to get up and get going. Sometimes it lasts two hours, sometimes four or five. Sometimes I've taken a short nap and felt energetic again in the afternoon.

I've been remembering recipes I haven't made in 4-5 years. I've begun playing the piano more than I have in a long time. Little by little it's as if my brain is finding more space available, and even my body is remembering routines it had to temporarily forget about for a while.

And here I am, writing on my blog!

The flowering quince is all in green now, at the time I'm writing this. Only four or five blossoms remain on the plant; the rest is all filled out in green leaves. Primavera.

But it was those blossoms that gave me so much hope and joy. They are fragile but beautiful, and this year they helped me believe that as fragile and tired as I've felt, the day would come when the sap would flow more fully, the green leaves would come out, and the plant would be ready for another season of growth.

I trust that I will be ready again before too long, too.

For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. 

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come....

Song of Songs 2:11-12

Violets, the Heart Cure

They decorate our front yard right now like little jewels scattered in the night by some unseen generous giver. Today a storm was on its way, and I came home just before it was supposed to begin raining. The winds were already strong.

All these sweet little violets were out there to face whatever was on its way, and I just wanted to bring some in with me, in case they all got smashed by the rain and whatever branches would fall.

So with the wind pushing against me, and my still-in-recovery foot and ankle protesting slightly, I bent and squatted as I could and picked as many as I could without starting to actually hurt.

Since my surgery, I've been thinking more than usual about how amazingly intricate and wondrous the natural world is. How our bodies are put together and most of the time function so well. How everything is put together--and most of the time functions so well.

And then there are things like flowers. They aren't like feet or toes or ankles, there to do a job and doing it well. Of course they do, I suppose, provide nectar for bees and some kind of nutrients for the soil. According to what I've read, in the medieval period and earlier they were used to treat heart disease.

But they are also just beautiful! Just wonderfully beautiful!

And cute! Who can look at these little things out in the grass and not smile? So sweet, so gentle, so....well, cute. Like "cute as a button" cute. have read that according to legend, Venus and Cupid had a conversation that went bad and resulted in Venus flying into a rage and beating her rivals for beauty until they turned blue...and turned into violets. Horrible story!

I much prefer the story that has come down, that these flowers blossomed when Mary said to the angel Gabriel, "Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord," and so they have been called, "Our Lady's Modesty" by those familiar with this story.

They remind me of childhood, and I read that they tend to be associated with childhood and innocence, and in some places and times the graves of children who died were covered in violets. It makes sense. They seem capable of comforting a broken heart and beautifying a great sorrow.

They make me think of the little song we sang when I was little, and that many of my piano students have played, "Lavender blue, dilly dilly...." even though it's about lavender, not violets. They make me wonder if children today learn all those little folk songs we learned, that are so connected to flowers and trees and birds and nature? When children spend the vast majority of their time inside, can they continue to sing such songs?

They make me think "This is my Father's world..."

"He shines in all that's fair....In the rustling grass I hear him pass..." 

And so these little tiny violets serve as a reminder that "though the wrong seems oft so strong,

God is the ruler yet."

I realize that many people do not look at violets and feel reassured that the world is ultimately in good hands. But I do. It has to do with the connection between truth, beauty, and goodness,

and I don't believe I can explain it in a quick blog post in which I really just wanted to say,

Look at these! Just look at these beautiful little flowers,

flowers that we did nothing to deserve.

They just spring up, year after year, out in the plain old grass that we didn't plant,

that we don't fertilize and hardly ever water. It's just there as a gift,

and they are part of the gift.

They make me realize that there are gifts all around that I don't see because I don't bother to look a little closer, or because I've just gotten used to them and take them for granted.

I think those earlier people had it right, that violets are good for the heart.

I think they had that right.

Spring Fever

Five months. I think it has been roughly five months since I posted. And I believe that is a record. Not the sort I ever intended to set, but so be it.

Maybe I'll write more later about what's been going on in those five months, or maybe not.

But today . . . Today the long winter was clearly over. Signs of spring are all around. And I had to bring some flowers in, and take some pictures, and I have to share them. And while we never know what lies ahead and therefore I am willing to be wrong, I just have the feeling that I am going to be here more often, writing more, sharing photos more. Change is in the air.

Spring is in the air. And in my house.

Life is in the air. New life.

Just look.

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want --- oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"

~ Mark Twain

Easter: Now the green blade riseth

Now the green blade riseth

from the buried gain,


wheat that in dark earth


many days has lain;


love lives again,
 that with the dead has been:


Love is come again like wheat that springs up green.

In the grave they laid him,


Love whom hate had slain,


thinking that never


he would wake again,


laid in the earth like grain that sleeps unseen:


Love is come again like wheat that springs up green.

Forth he came in quiet,


like the risen grain,


he that for three days


in the grave had lain,


quick from the dead
 the risen Christ is seen:


Love is come again like wheat that springs up green.

When our hearts are wintry,


grieving, or in pain,


Christ's touch can call us


back to life again,


fields of our hearts 
that dead and bare have been:


Love is come again like wheat that springs up green.

(You can listen to this song here in a lovely medieval-ish rendition.)

“It was no accident, no coincidence, that the seasons came round and round year after year. It was the Lord speaking to us all and showing us over and over again the birth, life, death, and resurrection of his only begotten Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ, our Lord. It was like a best-loved story being told day after day with each sunrise and sunset, year after year with the seasons, down through the ages since time began.”

― Francine Rivers, The Last Sin Eater

(I don't think I have any pictures of wheat growing, but this is a field I see regularly that is bare and muddy and ugly during the winter and then suddenly bursts into bloom!)

Maundy Thursday: Turning

(Caveat lector: I started writing this on the 26th day of Lent and had to leave off. Spring is now even further along than what I describe here......Just to keep it honest.)

Where we live, winter is finally turning into spring. The woods in this area have turned into a glorious celebration of new life. Grass is turning green in some places. People are turning their soil and planting things.

My jars and cups are turning into temporary vases as I bring daffodils into the house from time to time. Which turns walking through the common areas into a scent-uous delight.

I'm turning back to my routine of walking most mornings before anything else, though today we went for a walk together in the afternoon and saw the lovely magnolia pictured below.

And a huge field covered in these precious little purple wildflowers, whose name I still do not know, even though they have been a part of my life since as early as I can remember. (A quick search for "purple wildflowers that bloom in spring" tells me they are quite certainly a nettle, some type of Lamium. It's amazing how you can find things on the Internet....)

But the "turning" that has been on my mind when I'm not caught up in the glory of spring coming, is from another section of the book we've been reading most evenings during Lent, that I've quoted from in recent posts.

Following are excerpts from a sermon by Henry Drummond, of whom I know nothing beyond what the book tells me, that he was a British revivalist and preacher in the last half of the nineteenth century. He writes about the story of Peter and his betrayal of Jesus.

Tonight as I write, it is actually even more appropriate to write of this, rather than on the twenty-sixth day, as this is remembered as the night the betrayal happened. Having just returned home from a Maundy Thursday service, with the washing of feet, the sharing of bread and wine, and the almost surprisingly heartbreaking stripping of the altar--or altars, in the case of the church I was in--the story is even more poignant.

Having one's feet washed by anyone is a humbling and touching experience. Having one's feet washed by Jesus . . . I cannot imagine what it was like for Peter, for any of them. It seems to have evoked deep emotion in the disciples and especially in Peter, a deep sense of belonging, of desire to "have part in" rather than "have no part in me," as Jesus put it.

And yet . . . and yet . . . hours later, he denied knowing him.

Drummond writes,

Those of us who know the heart's deceit would surely find it difficult to judge this man--this man who had lived so long in the inner circle of fellowship with Christ, whose eyes were used to seeing miracles, who witnessed the glory of the transfiguration; this man whose ears were yet full of the most solemn words the world had ever heard, whose heart was warm still with Communion-table thoughts. We understand how he could have turned his back upon his Lord, and, almost ere the sacramental wine was dry upon his lips, curse him to his face. Such things, alas, are not strange to those of us who know the appalling tragedy of sin.

But there is something in Peter's life that is much greater than his sin. It is his repentance. We all to easily relate to Peter in his sin, but few of us grasp the wonder of his repentance. . . The real lesson in Peter's life is one of repentance. His fall is a lesson in sin that requires no teacher, but his repentance is a great lesson in salvation. And it is this great lesson that contains the only true spiritual meaning to those who have personally made Peter's discovery--that they have betrayed our God.

And then what I find especially beautiful--

What then can we learn from Peter's turning around? First, it was not Peter who turned. It was the Lord who turned and looked at Peter. When the cock crew, that might have kept Peter from falling further. But he was just in the very act of sin. And when a person is in the thick of his sin his last thought is to throw down his arms and repent. So Peter never thought of turning, but the Lord turned. And when Peter would rather have looked anywhere else than at the Lord, the Lord looked at Peter. This scarce-noticed fact is the only sermon needed to anyone who sins--that the Lord turns first.

Then he notes that it was not with a loud voice Jesus turned to him, not even with a sound at all.

A look, and that was all. . . God did not threaten . . .We misunderstand God altogether if we think he deals coarsely with our souls. If we consider what has really influenced our lives, we will find that it lies in a few silent voices that have preached to us, the winds which have passed across our soul so gently that we scarce could tell when they were come or gone. [He tells the story of Elijah and the still small voice from I Kings 19:11-12.]

When God speaks he speaks so softly that no one hears the whisper but yourself . . . Stay right where you are. Don't return into the hustle and bustle of life until the Lord has also turned and looked on you again, as he looked at the thief upon the cross, and until you have beheld the "glory of the love of God in the face of Jesus."

As winter turns to spring and hearts turn toward death and resurrection, and even flowers turn toward the sun, I am thankful for this reminder that God, through Christ, turns toward us even before we turn toward Him.

Signs of Spring

I found my first daffodils of the year yesterday. Almost missed them, as they were tucked away in the woods, off the beaten path.

But I did see them. And my heart danced a little dance of hope. It has been a long, cold winter. Two winters in a row, really. I don't even remember the past spring. A blur of wintry storm and blazing summer heat fill my mind when I think of last year, even though I know the spring did come between the two.

In Narnia, the White Witch made winter last unnaturally long. Sometimes life is like that, and it seems the ice will never melt, the green will never come, there will be no more flowers.

But in Narnia Aslan came, and he made things right, and the ice did melt, and life resumed the way it was meant to be. The frozen came back to life.

And I've lived long enough now to trust that spring will always come. To trust that even though I may endure some very long winters (stretching me so that I come closer to understanding an eternity perspective, perhaps?), God keeps promises, and new life will always come, no matter how frozen or dark or lifeless I may feel inside.

As long as the earth endures,

    seedtime and harvest, cold and heat,

summer and winter, day and night,

    shall not cease.

~ Genesis 8:22

Let us know, let us press on to know the LORD; his appearing is as sure as the dawn; he will come to us like the showers, like the spring rains that water the earth.

~Hosea 6:3

. . . let no flower of spring pass us by.

~Wisdom 2:7

". . . and God himself will be with them;

he will wipe every tear from their eyes.

Death will be no more;

mourning and crying and pain will be no more,

for the first things have passed away."

And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See I am making all things new." Also he said, "Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true."

~Revelation 21:3b-5

Daffadowndillies

I grew up in a small town. Since it was a university town, it gave me access to many interesting people from many places. And I had access to all kinds of books, and I read a lot. So it never felt like a too-small town to me, and I did not feel as if I were missing out on the world. Not at all.

And yet, somehow, it wasn't until I moved to Croatia that I learned one could grow daffodils in the middle of winter. Victoria magazine had just begun being published in the States before I moved over, and my sweet grandmother had them sent to me each month after she learned how much I enjoyed it.

And somewhere in one of those winter issues I saw yellow daffodils being grown inside, sitting in a windowsill with snow visible out the window. And with those long, freezing cold, gray Croatian winters, I dreamed of having daffodils in the middle of January. One issue even gave instructions on how to "force" the bulbs so that they would grow. I never got a chance to try it, since I didn't know where to get the bulbs, but, oh, how I looked longingly at those photos and dreamed of doing it and of seeing that spring beauty early.

Well, I never have done it. We moved to the States, and for the first few years we didn't have space in the apartment to do indoor projects that involved taking up space beyond what was needed for books and papers.  And before long I discovered that you could buy them. Someone else had done the work of chilling the bulbs and forcing their growth to come early.

And I am so thankful!

I'm also thankful for the new camera given to me for Christmas by my techno-savvy husband, who got fed up when he tried to use my older camera (which was a hand-me-down from him, so I don't know how old it was!) and missed a shot because it took so long to get it to do what he wanted. He had been saying for a while that I needed a new camera, but I think his own experience with it must be what convinced him the time had come.

I am still getting used to it.

But I'll never get used to the wonder of having these beautiful flowers in the middle of winter. Even though it's not as cold here, and isn't gray for as long, and we don't look out the windows and see snow for days on end, it's still winter. And the sign of spring is more than welcome.

Spring Green

I'm just fascinated by light. These days it's the light coming onto, and through, the new green that has exploded since the beginning of spring.

I remember, in elementary school, having a crayon with the name "spring green." Back then, I thought each name on a crayon was an official name; if I'd known about oil paints, I would have assumed there would be one on every artist's palette called "spring green," different from plain old green or "pine green."

I think of those "spring green" crayons every time winter comes to an end. The green of spring is so alive, so amazing.

I think also of Robert Frost's "Nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold..." I can't help it; it comes to mind each year, and the beauty and newness of "spring green" have that sober note in the background, certainly. But even Robert Frost's poetry with its reflection on Eden's sinking to grief cannot dampen my spirits when green is coming alive all around.

That's partly just because it is so absolutely gorgeous and soul-awakening, and also because I don't believe that Eden sinking to grief is the final story. No, one day there will be no sinking to grief, no leaf subsiding to leaf. Someday all that is gold will stay, whether the gold of the proverbial streets of gold, or the gold of a person being "good as gold."

In the meantime, I'm thankful for glimpses of gold and green that pierce this earthly life with moments of sublime beauty. And while the photos don't do it justice, that's what happens on days when I get home in time to see the sun at just the right point to shine on our front yard. I leave the wooden door open and stand there and marvel at the sheer "spring green" of it all. Something is resurrected in me as that light shines onto the grass and into the darkened doorway.

Fascinating what light can do.

(For those not familiar with the poem....)

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.