Not Yet Beautiful

Two burly days, heaved with heat, came out of nowhere and broke the back of winter. From knee-deep to bare ground over a handful of following days, the landscape collapsed in a time lapse of melting snow. And there was the earth, tattered, disheveled, empty. The trees were naked and scrawny, the foothills gaunt and sunken flanked. Muddy creeks thrashed about, threatening their banks, clawing at loose debris, dragging it along with them. Cranky clouds fought with the sun. The wind bit hard. 

Into this barrenness, Maggie and I hiked. Up the trail we went, then further still, searching for life somewhere. A swollen bud, a blade of grass, anything for our green-starved souls to see. Instead, we found shriveled rose hips clinging to thorny branches, matted grasses lying exhausted against the ground, brittle yucca drained of color, and juniper still tightly bundled in their evergreens. There was no life, save for the tumbling river far below.

When disappointment pricked, I remembered: this is when things are not yet beautiful, is all. Spring has just woken. She’ll lie there and breathe a minute. Blink a few times. Get her feeling back. When she’s ready, she’ll inhale deeply and rise. She’ll fluff her dress, tie her hair back, and get to work. She’ll call out a strong melody and buds, blossoms, and brilliant green will respond. And there it will be, what our souls are so desperately longing for, life, abundantly, as far as the eye can see. 

Soon, loves. Gather your patience. It won’t be long now.