Identity / Life / Sex & relationships

Weathering Seasons of Change

Blueberry Blossoms: Premonitions of the Fruit to Come

Blueberry Blossoms: Shaped like Premonitions of the Fruit to Come

It’s 43 degrees this early morning, and I’m sitting on a loveseat on my back porch, wrapped in a down blanket and a ski jacket. A cup of coffee steams on the glass table in front of me. A half-eaten bowl of cereal grows soggy in leftover milk.

Dawn’s pink fades from the cloud wisps above, as I close my eyes and do what I came here to do: listen to the emergence of spring.

At least seven distinct bird songs echo across the neighborhood, blending in symphonic chaos: crow, scrub jay, humming bird, cedar waxwing, American robin, plus two twittering tunes I can’t name.

I love the change of seasons. Any one season changing into the next brings me an equal mix of nostalgia for what’s passing and hope for what’s on its way.

I can’t say I respond that way to all forms of change. Since my wife and I separated last summer, I’ve responded to the shift in our family’s configuration with resistance, anger, frustration, curiosity, numbness, sadness, love, confusion, hope, panic, fear—you name it; I’ve felt it.

I spent most of summer, fall, and winter getting used to the day-to-day changes that sum up my “new normal”—figuring out how to share parenting across two households, redistributing responsibilities, navigating holidays and school breaks.

Now that this new normal has become a semi-predictable routine, I am noticing other sorts of change—deeper, tectonic shifts in my identity.

For instance, the future I thought I was walking toward has evaporated. It was, like all imagined futures, an illusion. In its place, I have questions: Who am I? What am I capable of? What do I want to build? How do I want to live? How do I want to feel?

Spring's Metaphor: Anything Is Possible

Spring’s Metaphor: Anything Is Possible

Like the season I came out here to witness this morning, right now I am an embodiment of emergence. In fact, I believe we are all, always, embodiments of emergence. We’re just unaware of this fact until life presents us with ground-shaking change.

I have no answers, at this moment, to the big questions rising up in front of me. But every day I remind myself to trust that the answers will arrive when they’re ready.

Meanwhile, I have spring’s metaphors speaking to me from all corners of this backyard—the white blueberry blossoms that take the shape of the fruit they will produce, the single red tulip that grows despite a three-year drought.


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