Art: by Stepha Lawson, http://www.languageofbirth.com
The Pacific Northwest sun is a glowing pregnant woman. She’s casting radiance and just as soon tucked away into the downy blanket of cumulus clouds or thick altostratus sheets. When she slips under, we feast our eyes on the colors to keep warm: The rhododendron’s fuchsia heat. The wisteria, a living watercolor of melting lavender tresses. The bleeding heart florets snuggled into grass like small lips lying in wait.
In a creation where cruelty and misfortune also bear fruit, it can be tricky to remember death itself is not malicious; how good it is for flowers to rot, for seasons to come and go, for elders to rest. And so I would like to make peace with our ephemeral sun, to accept that she remain fleeting and precious in these Pacific heights; so the Earth here can stay fathomless dank and teeming with alchemy.
But for now, we feast our eyes and fill our cups, and all the vases in the house. We celebrate with joy and also in defiance of all the evidence that would suggest we ought to do otherwise. It is brave to spend time loving and praising what must pass. Dear spring. Dear children. Dear breath. Earth shows us we can trust in the ultimate goodness of the comings and the goings.
The more at peace I am with the essential revolution of planets and people alike, the more I’m able to sense and admire just what is happening here. It is by making room for mystery and movement, not by having the answers that I keep my faith and sing my prayer. Bless you in your radiance, as well as in your dormancy, northwest sun, and every living love.