Hello,

In these early spring days in Canada, we can see varying degrees of winter’s end. The light is longer. The temperatures fluctuate (even if we will have three more snowfalls before we can put the shovels and boots away). Birds are starting to reappear. Nature is preparing for its most dramatic transition from dormancy to new life. My eyes search for each tiny sign:  buds forming on trees, the dirt and gravel beneath the snow, rubber boots beside the snow pants. I want to stay close to the shifting.

This winter finds me in a new micro-climate. Chinook winds blow up over the mountains, creating a rapid warming as the air comes down the other side. The clouds recede in a beautiful and dramatic arch, a perfect canvas for prairie light to play. As always, my barefoot spirituality cannot resist the relationship between nature and my life. I am captivated by the connection between chinooks and change.

O Holy Night proclaims at Christmas that a “weary world rejoices”; the implication is that Advent might find us worse for wear. Dear baby Jesus, I am weary. And I am feeling the invitation to sink deep here.

It was so surprising to me that I had to nurture self-awareness of my own sources of joy with unapologetic confidence. Of course I get surprised by new things, and then I get to add them to the list. As I age, the list is getting longer and simpler simultaneously.

Over and over again, I am tempted to do it all myself, to pretend like I don’t need others’ care, as though my humanity is a burden for the people around me. This is such a lie, and it is so obvious to everyone around me, even when I’ve deceived myself thoroughly.

Over the last few months, I have been thinking a lot about the way that places and spaces hold us. Walking through our old neighbourhood for the last time, I walked under aged elm trees, whose branches provided cover from a gentle rain. In other seasons, that park was a playground of snow, and a mountain of leaves. It was a space that held our family so beautifully over the last few years.

There is risk in the uprooting. Some parts of the plant may be damaged or die. But there is also risk in not dividing and transplanting. Old plants can become congested, overcrowded, and produce hard and bitter fruit.