By Erin Brigham, PhD, Executive Director of The Joan and Ralph Lane Center for Catholic Social Thought and the Ignatian Tradition and Chief Mission Officer
I grew up in the Rocky Mountains of western Montana. The icy cold, short days of winter sometimes felt endless. I know what it feels like to long for spring. In March, when the dirt began to thaw and fresh green leaves worked their way through buds on trees, my siblings and I would go on nature hikes, searching for the first flower of spring. It was usually a small bluebell or yellowbell, an occasional shooting star. I remember the excitement behind all the small delicate flower represented — the freedom to run around outside without heavy boots and jackets, sacred mornings in the garden with our mom.
Since I moved to California, I haven’t experienced the same longing for spring because I have forgotten the harshness of a long winter. This year has been different. A few days ago, I sat with my now 6-year old in our backyard and felt the sun on my face, one sign of spring I could have easily overlooked. I started noticing other subtle changes in our garden. The blossoms on our plum tree look the same as they did last year when the pandemic began. In those days, my then preschooler and I spent as much time as we could in the yard. Thinking it would only last a few months, we built a time capsule. I reminded myself to savor the unique and fleeting blessing of working from home with my imaginative 5-year old.
The fruit trees look the same but my sweet kiddo looks a year older. I look five years older. The pandemic has been a long hard winter. But being back outside with my kid, soaking in the stillness of nature, has brought me back to the wisdom of the early days– savor this fleeting time, you’ll never get these days back. Before the fall when the smoke-filled air trapped us inside and before the winter surge reminded us of the power of the virus and vulnerability of our bodies, we savored spring in all its sweetness.
I spent a lot of time trying to find meaning in the pandemic. Like a long lenten season, it forced me to look at the ways I distract myself from my fear of death and tragedy. I imagine many of us are trying to integrate the lessons from this year, using the in-betweenness of this time to embrace something new. But just as I have squandered lent so many years in the past on self-help projects that further distract me from the present moment, I am tempted to shift my post-pandemic focus on goals I can control. The garden calls me back to the present moment, the stillness of life around me and the deep truth that everything I always longed for can only be embraced here and now.
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