I grew up in Texas. In that place, it is possible to be surprised by spring. A river of bluebonnets might bubble up overnight. A heatwave might suddenly stake its claim on a handful of early February days.
Here, among rolling Pennsylvania hills, spring is never a surprise.
We wait so long for spring, and its coming is so slow, that no change appears without being watched from a great distance and for a long while. The view from my office window today is as brown and bleak as ever, but for days, weeks, even, I have watched the buds on the forsythia swell.
The snowdrops in the lawn do tend to pop up without warning, but no sooner have I noticed them than my two-year-old daughter has flattened the whole patch with one pink, rubber boot.
Observing a northern spring, I realize how small a great, new beginning can be. I dream of spring all winter, but the dream comes true only in fits and starts. In much waiting and a great deal of work with shovels, rakes, and pruners.
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I once dreamed of becoming a mother, but the dream was realized in sleepless nights and temper tantrums (hers and mine).
I once dreamed of a farmhouse home, and the dream came true as we cleared hornet nests from behind every window shutter and poison ivy from every fence and tree.
I once dreamed of becoming a writer, and that dream came true through the slow, daily accumulation of words.
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But dreams are like spring.
There will always be some moment of joyful recognition. Some moment when the dream drifts down around you. Light, like dandelion fluff, but real enough to see and touch.
Perhaps when the baby says I love you. When a friend says your home is so peaceful. Or, maybe, when you read the proposed back-cover copy for your book and burst into tears. Because, for the first time, the book with your name on it sounds, even to you, like a good book. Like the kind of book you would love.
It is like the moment when the magnolia opens its first pink blooms. It won’t matter then that I’ve been studying those gray buds all winter. It won’t matter that I noticed the first narrow edge of pink weeks ago.
I have lived enough springs to know that I will always greet that moment with astonishment.
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That tree! Oh my lands. I feel the same way about the hope in dreams, always astonished when they come to fulfillment. And maybe that is the best way to live, surprised by the joy and never allowing hope to be commonplace. I love that you teared up reading the back cover of YOUR book. I can’t wait to read it, I know it will be beautifully written. xxx
Yes, it’s a poem of a tree, isn’t it, Shelly? Thanks for your kind words, my friend.
so well said
Thanks, Robin!
This made me smile today. Thank you.
Thanks for being here, Jessica.
I love this and can’t wait for your book.
Thanks, Shawn. I appreciate it.
Such a beautiful post. I feel the similarly about my own dreams. Also, I live in Dallas and you are so right — spring comes as a surprise here! This year, it was a wonderful gift.
I’m glad to hear it, Elizabeth! Enjoy all the bluebonnets for me. 🙂
So beautiful Christie. It’s a gradual thing, the way most dreams come true, and still it sometimes feels so sudden–and always spectacular. So excited about your book, my friend!! Well done!
Gradual and sudden. Yes. Thanks for being here, Kris. So grateful for you.
So beautiful Christie!!
Thank you!
Love seeing your name pop up here, Tracy!
Can’t wait to have your dream-come-true book in my hands. 🙂
Me too, Danielle.
Love your words. I’m writing from Florida. Not sure I want to return to Colorado. The grass and the trees are green here. The air is warm. Ahhhh. Spring had sprung. Also I can’t wait to read your book! I think I hear spring in your words coming from your heart.
Sue, I hope those Colorado wildflowers come quickly! Florida beaches are great, but there’s nothing like a mountain meadow in full bloom.
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE put me on the launch team for this book, dear Christie. SO looking forward to it. And you know I love that picture of the tree. Kills me every.dang.time.
Consider it done, Diana! You are such a gifted cheerleader and encourager. I wouldn’t want to do this book thing without you.
This is the loveliest.
As are you.
“Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Prov 16:24). Thank you for the sweet gift, Ann.
Yours is a book I cannot wait to read!
Thank you, Shelly!
Overjoyed for you, beautiful Christie! What a celebration, and spring – such an apt metaphor for this joy!