Bend and See

Bee FlowerIn the stale rhythm of winter one thing circulates through my mind. It’s the knowing that Spring is next. Does it come in March or April? I can never remember. Even after 34 rhythms of Spring-coming-after-Winter, it still surprises me.
The first snow of winter excites me. The second one, too. The third bluster still brings a smile. The next, a little less so. Winter time stands still. The trees are still bare. The days are longing to stretch out with a bright yawn. My truck’s battery still dies in the cold.

I know Spring is coming, but I forget how it comes.
Then it comes all of a sudden.

The neighbor taps the maple trees.
Is it time, already?
I check the branches on the fruit trees. Maroon buds cracking to show the green life beneath. Almost.
I look to the hills and a pale green hue frosts the high canopy of the oak forests. It’s far out of reach.
I walk through the softening grass and look.
Below, I hear the faint electric hum of honeybees. I look down and spot one, two, three busily hopscotching from one emerging patch of green to the next.
I bend closer. And I find small violets hiding in the understory of the grass. Perfect blue flowers—or are they purple? Too small to tell. But the bees are satisfied with their little bits of nectar.

It’s as though the bees point and say, “Here is life. It’s down here. Hidden.”
And I am invited to look in unfamiliar places.

I’m sure I’ll forget next year from where this life first sprang. But maybe I’ll walk a little slower. Listen a little closer. Look a little deeper. And I’m sure I’ll be reminded again.

And this is my role, too, the role of the bee? To point where life springs. To point where people are not looking and say, “Here. Here is life.”

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