The Pulse of Spring

Can you hear it? That pulse?

The steady thrum of ground beginning to rise and fall, earth turning over on itself as it stretches from a long, luxurious nap, ready to uncurl its winter-frozen spine?

You may not hear it right away. Or you might hear it for just a moment before it recedes in the next, awaiting a cue that the time is fully ripe.

This is an exquisite, suspended time. One to be savored and sipped. A time when the tangy, dank notes of warming soil enjoy their before-dawn dance with the icy, crisp frost of the night before. When excitement hovers like Eucalyptus steam in the center of our senses, anticipation for something elusive and promised stirring the brisk night air.

There is magic here. In this place where the murmur of waking giants, the hum of winter beehives curtail the inner cynic. Inexplicable tableaus insisting that there is more to this story than what can be seen. A winding, curvaceous tale of contradiction that fluffs the imagination, has us growing taller in our sleep.

This is the story of Spring.

Of her leisurely and sometimes raucous emergence from the embrace of Winter. Her intention to keep us guessing, listening for subtle shifts, signals that tell us to soften into a quiet coil of patience or unapologetically assert in a spasm of color and sound. A study in contrasts meant to challenge what we think we know, snap us out of complacent, steady rhythms that pose a threat to the staccato of innovation.

Don’t resist. That’s the way of it. If you rally against Spring’s ministrations, you’re liable to land face-down in the mud, bewildered and exhausted from wasted effort.

Do your best to go limp, make yourself pliable, undeterred by muscle and bone, ready to lose yourself to unscored rhythms.

The reward for your supple nature is Spring whisking you into her arms, ushering you between night and day dreams as she clears the sand from your wintered eyes, making way for Robin eggs and earthworms, hyacinths and pear blossoms, dappled sunlight and wet-winged butterflies.

A magnanimous provision of the raw materials necessary for your unscripted reemergence.

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