“And suddenly you just know…It’s time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.”
~ Meister Eckhart

Some years ago I self-published a book of my essays in which I related some everyday stories about my life at the time. One of those essays, called “New Life,” has always been my favorite, and I often think about it at this time of year. While I was still pondering whether to adapt it so I could share it with you on this blog, I saw this amazing photo (above), taken by my friend Sue Ivy, who has contributed a lot of the beautiful photography on this site. Sue took this closeup in her own backyard one cold January day a few years back. I think the photo and the essay were meant to be paired, don’t you?

~~~

Every year at the end of January I start to watch for the smallest sign of budding on the trees. I live in North Carolina and the winters are not nearly as long or bleak as they were in Philadelphia when I was growing up. But January remains my least favorite month, and the buds give me encouragement. Barely visible at first, the initial buds are tight and dark. I watch them week after week for the slightest change. Ever so slowly, the buds grow bigger and lighter and finally one day I see them—tiny green shoots coming out of the buds. Next come the delicate blossoms, beautiful but brief. Within a couple of weeks the blossoms are transformed to baby yellow-green leaves, and then the leaves grow rapidly, filling out the trees to their summer grandeur.

When I first start seeing signs of life on the trees, I see myself too, closed up, slowed down. By the end of the winter I have retreated into myself, doing more reading and sleeping than usual. On good days I keep busy to fill the time, cleaning closets and reorganizing my office. On cold dark days I wonder, briefly, if the sun will ever shine again.

I used to think of my winter seclusion as hibernation, but I finally realized that it is actually a type of incubation.

Although we can't see it, we know that all kinds of complex processes are happening behind the scenes to make the blossoms on the trees finally appear, and I think the same is true of human beings. While it may appear that nothing is happening during certain periods of our lives, we may actually be thinking, evaluating, analyzing, readying ourselves to make a change. Others may get impatient with us, but incubation is an important process.

We are like trees, and some aspects of our growth are invisible, but they secure us and prepare us for the splendor we will eventually be.

Those first hard buds just beginning to form on the trees let me know that it won't be long until my own incubation is over. I'll feel a kinship with the trees as my sluggishness wears off and I begin to perk up, slowly at first, and then more quickly as I feel the warmth of the spring sun on my face.

As I watch the transformation, I think of all the opportunities we have for rebirth in our lives. This year in particular, several of my family members seem to be starting out or starting over. One great niece is a college freshman. Two great nephews will be graduating from high school in June and are in the process of selecting colleges. Our first grandson will be starting kindergarten in August. I am excited for all of them and I wonder what they will be and do.

It's comforting to me that we get more than one chance. Like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With The Wind, when I feel lost, or disappointed in myself, I am grateful that "tomorrow is another day." The sun always shines after gray days, the warmth returns, our incubation is complete, and we have a chance to begin again. We get the spark of an idea, and it starts to grow, and suddenly we can't wait to share it with others. We can see it, even if others can't yet, and we can almost taste the satisfaction of our accomplishment.

The evaluating, the analyzing, the second-guessing is gone—we're flying high on our own creativity. The world is in bloom again!

Affectionately,

Elaine