The snow crept in the darkest hours of this morning and shed her cloak on the Tulips and the Daffodils, hunched over in shivering bundles.
This is a season of paradox.
Of growth and renewal and moving backward so that all progress is lost beneath blankets of a darker season who is impotently tightening her grasp.
Of sunlight and warmth and marching back to the light from the drumbeat of the dark.*
Of emerging and newness and the predictability of growth and change and the direction they usually choose to go.
Of pruning and the optimism of beginning.
Of turning over the earth and setting roots, intentionally.
Of letting go. Of moving forward.
Of defining oneself outside the intentions of someone else.
Of knowing that, despite the voices of dissent, she is more than the threadbare blanket she has been hiding underneath.
Of hope out of deference to potential.
Of promises spoken and kept, however untimely.
This is the season to uncloak, disentangle, run bare.
And occasionally, to leave defiant footprints in the snow.
*I've been contemplating the seasons of dark and light and the meaning of it, since this beautiful post from Bon in early December.