Believe winter is as arable as spring

You know how much I love Game of Thrones? A lot. You know how much I hate winter? About as much as I love GOT. You know where I live? Northwestern Ohio. Winter is not just coming. It's here1, and it is GRAY2.

As I say farewell to 2015, I find myself reflecting on winter as a season of life and embracing its grayness as a metaphor for non-duality and the power of paradox.

A season of life

The great wheel keeps turning. I never expected to experience winter as a season of life until...well...later than 34. Maybe it's that I assumed the wheel would only turn once for each of us and we would only get one chance to live through each season. But here I am. Winter. I now know there will be more winters in the years to come. Just like in Westeros, though, I don't know when it will be or how long it will last. I just know it's here and it's coming again. So is spring. So is summer. So is fall.

I've fallen in love with Emily Dickinson these last few weeks. One morning, I stumbled upon this profundity:

Winter under cultivation
Is as arable as Spring

Pain inflicted upon us is kind of like weeds3. You can't just clip the top and pretend it never happened. Burying our hurts is not the way to clear a path to forgiveness. You've gotta dig that shit up from the root and identify it so you can know how to stop it from spreading to and taking over the healthy parts of your life.

You have to go deep. Sometimes, you get tired. Sometimes, you're so tired you just want to pretend that pulling off the leaves is good enough. It's not. Sometimes, you consider abandoning the garden because the work is so overwhelming you can barely remember what other seasons look like. It's tempting to put on the thickest of gloves so you won't get dirty in the pulling of weeds (and sometimes, you have to protect yourself and it's OK because some weeds can cause pain in the act of removing them). Sometimes, you want to believe you can kill the weeds with more toxicity. Except then you risk killing off healthy growth in the same garden.

Hard work. Deep digging. Facing the dirt. Having faith that the garden will grow. Nurturing the healthy plants around the weed. It's not easy, especially in the midst of winter's frozen ground. But it's work that has to be done, and I choose to trust that under cultivation, this winter will be as arable as spring. What will spring look like? I don't know. That's where faith comes in. I believe spring will look healthier, fuller, more abundant than winter. I can't control what plants will flourish. I can only control how I nurture what is in front of me now.


A metaphor for non-duality

If you've had more than one conversation with me since May, you have heard the words "Richard Rohr says..." His wisdom and writing have taught me a lot, and perhaps the spaces in which I have found myself most challenged are in exploring the notion of shadow-boxing and learning to see and embrace the possibility inherent in a non-dual perspective.

There are many clever turns of phrase I could conjure to describe 2015. Instead of snarky cleverness (which is a special gift of mine), I have opted to go with "The year of paradox." I've seen a heap of black and white, but the gray murkiness of paradox is that which I have come to believe is the (paradoxical) secret to making winter arable.

Some insights you might want to write on a Post-it and stick to your fridge (or not):

I've never been so deeply crushed, yet I now stand taller than ever. (If one can accept the possibility that 5'3" can be considered tall.)

I lost faith in my intuition only to discover it has yet to prove false.

I felt and received Light in the midst of seemingly absolute darkness.

I learned that while others may affect my happiness, I alone am responsible for it.

I have never felt so incredibly alone yet completely surrounded by love.

I discovered that the richest learning happens in the midst of teaching.

I am learning that gentleness with self is essential for the nurturing of a strong self.

There's more I could share. For now, though, those words will remain written on my heart or only spoken to my fellow gardener.

Take heart, friends (and self). My fingernails are dirty. I'm not the only one working the hard, frozen ground. I have faith that with this hard work, growth is not only possible, it might just take root and sprout something more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

May 2016 see my wheel turn from winter into spring.

Raspberries from our yard in Kansas. The bush died in the midst of the drought that came after Atticus was born. It might have been saved were we more attentive to its needs. I trust there will be more delicious berries when the next harvest comes.

NOTES:

1. Though, thanks to El Niño, this winter is allegedly ridiculously mild compared to what I might expect in future winters.

2. But not as gray as northern Indiana, PTL.

3. Yes, my botanical master gardening friends, I acknowledge my metaphor might break down here and there. Just go with it. OK?