Muddling through vague instructions

An image stays with me when I try to make sense of this time of year. I think of a cascade, a small waterfall where the water tumbles from one stone to the next.

I imagine myself standing ankle-deep in the clear water, rearranging stones to redirect the current. The choices I make determine how the water flows. So I lift stones and place them elsewhere, looking for a flow I like. But the water keeps coming, indifferent to the obstacles I place in its way.

I look up at the low sun, illuminating the morning dew and throwing the trees into silhouette. The light washes everything in a soft gleam and the birds greet the morning with song. I drink in the beauty, but at the same time an odd feeling settles over me. I find myself envious of nature; the sun, the trees and the birds are so utterly at ease with themselves. They sing their song without hesitation. Here I find the first longing of spring: to know how to sing.

More power than I possess

Things still feel unfamiliar, as if I am muddling through vague instructions. The first signs of growth give little away about how life will unfold.

The next move is mine, but I don’t assume more power than I truly possess. Some inspiration springs up on its own, but other desires simply refuse to surface. I find what wills to be born. That birth is often bittersweet, because in its first form I already see what it is not. I sabotage myself by forcing something into being, because I want it so much. But that choice leads to disappointment.

Not everything will live. And so throughout the day I repeat an old prayer: let me be yours alone, that my will be thine and nothing more. This is a practice in trust; it anchors me in an unruly time of year.

A firm trust does not shield me from disappointment. The disappointment can stay, but it must not lead. I keep watching how the water wants to flow, placing my stones where they belong. In this way my choices work with the current. For stronger than the water I will never be.