Spring's Waiting Room

As a New Englander, I know well the sheer torture of waiting for spring after a long cold winter.  My spirit strains forward into the lengthening days, as if I could consciously make the coming of spring be speedier, faster.  I remember the year I broke my ankle in early January, and spent one of the snowiest and coldest winters I could remember in a cast, dreading each entry into the cold, snowy day.  My cast put me off-balance; my crutches made my arms and shoulders ache, and I was in constant fear that I would fall yet again in that snow and ice, hurt myself once more.  There was no human being within 200 miles of where I lived that was happier to see March come in that year, with its promise of spring.  Well - perhaps no one except my husband, who dreads winter on any level, never mind a winter with a wife who was struggling not only with a difficult winter, but with cast, crutches and pain.

Since that winter 26 years ago, I’ve learned a few things about March.  In general March has little to recommend it, except for a strange day called the Ides of March (which, I’ve discovered, was nothing ominous at all, but the name of the full moon in March), and of course, St. Patrick’s Day when many throw caution to the wind, and drink green beer with a corned beef and cabbage boiled dinner (a holiday featuring cabbage has always struck me as rather odd).  In Vermont and New Hampshire, March is known as “mud season”, and for good reason.  The melting snows and spring rains turn passable dirt roads into thick brown hazards of muck and mire, a trap for any vehicle foolish enough to venture on that road without at least a 4-wheel drive, if not a truck.  For us “flat landers”, March has mud, to be sure, but it also has incredibly variable weather - one minute a spring-like 55 degrees; the next- a spring blizzard with blinding winds and swirling snow.  It’s unpredictable, like a seductive temptress always leading us on, but often disappointing, and sometimes downright infuriating.

But I’ve also learned that March is a waiting room; a placeholder for spring, a reminder that spring truly is coming, if only we can patiently wait for it to arrive.  And in that waiting, there is so much to see, to learn, to appreciate.  

At our home near the shore, violas, snow drops and crocus are usually in full bloom by March.  They pop up along the stone wall along our driveway, and under the larger perennials that are still winter-bound, where the sun warms the patches of earth, allowing them to burst forth - sometimes even through old snow that lays melting, spent and gray. When I watch carefully, I can see the first new buds of trees, and of our perennials as they prepare for the coming spring and summer season of their glory. I have one perennial, the Lenten Rose, that is most glorious in March.  It will suddenly, on a warmish spring morning, declare the coming of spring with its many gray-violet flowers, announcing the new season in its lonely but glorious beauty. 

I’ve learned to wait, and March has become the time of year that reminds me that waiting for spring is not hard if you learn to recognize the simple signs of beauty in nature as it prepares for the coming renewal rites of this beautiful season.  And so too, in my life, I’m reminded that waiting is made easier when I notice what is blossoming around me; if I would simply stop, wait, and intentionally notice what God is offering to me to enjoy as I wait. 

Learning to appreciate March - whether the calendar month that heralds the coming of spring, or the Marches of our lives where we are forced to wait for that “next thing” - whether it’s waiting for that next better job, for a child to return home, for a relationship to heal, for God to speak again - all our Marches can be intentional opportunities to look around us, and notice what is with us here and now, in this moment of waiting. Surely, there will be something new to see; something interesting to appreciate. It only takes the seeing of the thing.

When I was in my 30s, I was diagnosed with high blood pressure - not surprising since my mother suffered from the same condition, and I had gained a few pounds that pushed me into the danger zone of hypertension.  As a result, my doctor had me returning every 3 months for a blood pressure check. Unfortunately, that office was notoriously inefficient, and could never keep patients’ appointments flowing smoothly or on time. A 45-minute-wait wasn’t unusual, and the longer I’d sit there and wait, the more frustrated and upset I became - imagining all the things I could be doing instead of just waiting.  That meant that by the time I saw my doctor, my blood pressure was sky-high.  One day, I decided to bring my knitting with me while I waited; I figured I had nothing to lose since I’d have to sit there, anyway.  At my next appointment, I showed up in the waiting room, gave my name to the receptionist, whipped out my yarn and needles, and happily knit on my sock until my name was called.  When I saw the doctor 50 minutes later, I was smiling, calm, relaxed. And not to my surprise - my blood pressure was way down.  Not normal, but far better than before. Learning to wait with pleasure had turned a difficult and frustrating time into a short interlude of creativity and happiness. To this day, I bring my knitting with me almost everywhere; when I wait at the doctor’s office, when I sit at a meeting, when I take a train or plane. Knitting turns waiting and empty stretches of time into meaningful opportunities to create, to think, to pray.

I have learned that how I wait is as important as what I am waiting for - and sometimes more so.  Keeping my eyes open and my spirit expectant has transformed such times into opportunities to be open to new thoughts and ideas; to be available to people around me as they ask questions, or make comments, to a creative energy that finds expression in the simplest of tasks. As I enter into this March season that sits between an old, tired winter and the promise of a spring that’s almost - but not quite - here, I am watching trees for their tiny green buds, and for crocuses pushing out of the cold ground. I watch for the return of the geese and shorebirds that inhabit the marshes near by. I tamp down my impatience for the warm spring breeze by enjoying the smell of damp earth on the chilly late-winter winds. I’ve come to enjoy March, and I plan to make the most of this March to come (and probably skip the cabbage!), and anticipate just how glorious this spring will be.