I Am Not Ready For Spring
Resisting Spring, but welcoming Her anyway
“In the same breath, my heart sank. I feel not ready for spring, ‘I’m not ready for spring,’ my heart thumped at me.” – from my forthcoming essay, Imbolc: Resisting Spring and Light.
This year, I’m not ready for spring, not ready for the blooming flowers, the sweet smell of magnolias, the sneezing of our bodies dusting their insides out.
I see the crocuses, I see the symphony of magnolias and cherry blossoms ready for their prelude dance. I see them, and my eyes scream for them to wait, hold on, let me sit in darkness a while longer.
As I composed the following list of reasons for my resistance, I saw the golden thread is the singular fact that this is my first spring without Pants. The first spring without my little four-legged boy trotting by my side. There are still many firsts coming for little one-year-old Tala, and I notice many of them happen with a presence that is the absence of Pants. This equinox is a precious moment of evolution in the way my grief is comforted, for this grief will be long-lasting if not lifelong. With the longer days coming, I will honor these moments of grief through bittersweet acts of ceremony including the rebirthing around me.
Why I Resist Spring and How I Welcome Her Anyway
Leaving the season of Pants’s death - the longest shortest day gets further away. I will change out his memory jar on my piano to his spring wear by removing his winter booties and sweater, putting in his spring shirt and letting the spring air circulate in the jar.
No opportunity for Tala to walk Panchy on her own. How Tala loved to hold the foam handle on Pants’s leash while she was in my sling in autumn and winter of last year! Now she is walking for the first time on her own saying, “Hi, tree!” — and we are missing leash-holding and Pants–walking in warmer weather. Tala and I will go out for a walk with Pants’s leash. His red one.
No first spring walk without his jacket on, letting his hair feel the warm-cool spring breeze. Tala and I will walk out holding Panchy’s collar because he seemed to be more comfortable being free when he had it on, no jacket, no leash. Free to be with us in spirit jingling his tags with the birdsong.
No first time without socks or paw pad salve for the season. Tala and I will take some chalk out and draw on the pavement. Honoring the man-made sidewalks that kept us safe for all these years on walks. We will walk barefoot on grass and wild weeds to feel the earth beneath our feet (in a safe place without pesticides).
Missing the ritual of putting away his winter gear in the closet, lightening the entryway foyer space for spring and summer. I will decorate his portrait in the entryway with mementos of spring throughout the season. I will begin to put away his condolence cards and revamp the area where his ceramic paw print lives.
No first time to the groomer for his warm weather cut. I have a hard time passing by his groomer’s salon without crying and that’s okay. I will come visit and walk by with one of his handkerchiefs (really, a neckerchief) – or maybe if it feels right, enter, ask for one, and say hello to Sam, his dependable and kind groomer.
No visit to the vet for renewal of vaccines. We made so many visits near the end, the multitude of medicine refills for sore joints. I feel ready to return and donate unused medicine, and his special red hind-leg leash for extra support that we only used for a week or two before his passing. We liked the color red for him.
No one-on-one walks with Pants to the cherry blossom tree to see the blooming stages. I will walk alone and spend time with his spirit, taking one of his collars with me. We will talk with the tree, just spending time, noticing the small changes taking place with each passing day.
Since Imbolc, there has been a slow and steady softening to spring. Despite my resistance, I am touched by the softness of the crocuses and snowdrops, a quality that feels different from the softness from a blanket of snow. The birds are returning and singing, and while my ears listen for the rests of silence, they fail to resist the birdsong. I see a brightening strength to the dandelions, the wild weeds waking up to say hello. A feeling of hope begins to rekindle a fire within to move, knowing that there is medicine for grief in this season too.
Spring has a gentle hope I can’t deny, yet I pull away from this energy when I go back inside my hobbit hole home. There are many reasons I want to stay in my burrow and hide. But there is a way to slowly wake up, a way to feel each moment, each awakening part of me can become alive in its own time — just like the symphony of blooming flowers and trees that work together to create the beautiful symphonic harmony that is spring.
I forgot that spring has a melancholy to it, that it once was my favorite season. Decades ago there was a time when I welcomed being held, when I had a childlike wonder and freedom to seek help when I needed it. I didn’t need it to be a crisis to accept a real hug. A time before I had this false perception that I need to hold it together. Maybe what I need is permission to fall apart, to fall into the flowers and cry while they remind me that there is beauty after the harsh experiences of our world, that there can be new life as we step forward through floral doors allowing light in to make cobwebs seen, ready for a new cycle to begin. Mama me give me this permission. The way I give this to Tala, I give it to myself now.
The flowers disarm me and my staunch opposition to the growing light, the energy to be outside to be with others. The birdsong sends me energy to strengthen my ability to hold dichotomies, the both/and experience of joy and grief. Spring equinox is a time before all the bugs and insects emerge, but soon their cacophony becomes part of the symphony, distinct yet part of the whole.
There is magic in the doorway of this equinox. Maybe slowly leaving parts of me and my grief with the world around me is a beautiful offering to the energy of this season. Naturalist and author, Vanessa Chakour, reminds us that one way to emerge, is to do so slowly, “Life is starting to appear above ground, but is still tender, slowly emerging from the sleepy hibernation of winter. As wild beings, we humans are also adjusting to change, gradually beginning to thaw.” Spring is awakening slowly if you pay attention. Vanessa also shares a beautiful list of ways to honor and transition into this season.
On my plant walks with Tala, we will leave locks of our hair where we feel permission to safely harvest. (Tala recently had her first haircut started by Tita Ayee and finished by Mama! And yes, I saved those beautiful little locks.) Maybe these little spring gifts will end up decorating Panchy’s image in our entryway.
In bittersweet grief, I wish all spirited beings a joyous and slow entry into spring.