Image: Barbara Ryther
Spring
By the time you read this, the forsythia will be gone.
The bushes will still be there, of course, but the brilliant yellow blossoms will be spent. New England springs are much anticipated, much loved, much photographed, and to my mind much too frantic and fleeting. What starts as a single crocus in a sheltered but sunny crevice evolves into a day-by-day torrent of color. Daffodils and tulips shoot up in turn from the bare ground. Azalea, magnolia and cherry blossoms appear, first as tentative green swellings on bare, gray branches and then in a seeming endless abundance.
Spring to me is forsythia. A sea of dancing yellow branches is the signal I need to relax my winter tensed shoulders and believe in the warming air, even if I know that the warmth will certainly be interrupted by cold, wet spells. Seeing a row of forsythia glowing in the distance or coming across one bush unexpectedly always makes me smile. They seem to absorb the sun and then radiate it back in a message of hope and joy.
I often wonder how I would feel about forsythia if they were around all the time, if they didn’t emerge suddenly in a brilliant glow at the end of months of cold and gray and then disappear into the background again. Would I greet their appearance as joyfully? Would I mourn the inevitable shedding of blossoms so deeply? Would I anticipate their next appearance so hopefully?
What was it like for the disciples to find the crucified Christ in their midst, suddenly, when the world had seemed cold and cruel and hard? The very first spring. Despite being told otherwise, had they believed that this winter would be their lives going forward? Could they picture this spring beforehand, and when it did happen, could they believe it? How long did it take before they could relax and breathe again?
We have the advantage of entering into Lent and Holy Week every year knowing that it ends with spring, with joyful, dancing yellow branches absorbing and reflecting the sun. We can feel the pain and sorrow and also know that joy is coming. We can believe.
Rejoice!
Barbara Ryther