I've been wintering over.
After being fully underground for a while, I'm easing back out into the sunlight. Slowly uncurling roots into the earth, gathering my energy for a re-emergence. Ready to begin again, but not from the same place or in the same way.
This year my inner winter paralleled the external shift of seasons. Right about the time that I saw the first patch of tiny purple flowers--my personal indicator that Spring is really here--I also felt the hint of an inner thaw, a visceral sense of coming alive to new possibilities, a renewed interest in old passions.
The really amazing thing about blooming is that it happens too slowly for us to watch. What occurs in an inconceivably slow progression, hour by hour, can seem abrupt: yesterday just a tiny velvety bud, this morning a flower.
Meanwhile, there's a frisson of expectancy. Hiro Boga's lovely first blog post describes the mix of anticipation and dread that comes just before the commencement of a new project. Feeling ready and also not-ready.
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