“In three words I can sum up everything
I’ve learned about life:
it goes on.”
~ Robert Frost
When I was a young girl, spring cleaning was a
ritual not taken lightly in my mother’s home. Soon after the arrival of the
first robins and crocus sprouts, I and my sisters, along with our mother,
grandmothers, aunts and (female) cousins would don our work clothes and get
about the business of sweeping out the heavy trappings of winter. The dark, weighty slip covers where
replaced with lighter, floral cottons (a decorating fashion of the times),
drapes were removed, windows washed and flung open and jugs of pussy willows
and lilacs filled the spaces previously occupied by now tired, and leggy,
poinsettias. In the meantime, Dad
would be busy in the garage stowing away snow shovels and bags of rock salt to
make room for rakes, hoes, grass seed and fertilizer.
It was a full weekend’s undertaking. Yet, as we curled up on
the sofa Sunday night, thoroughly spent and bone weary, eager to see where the
brave and beautiful Lassie would take us this time, we were filled with a great
sense of peace in our newly refreshed and airy home.
Spring is teasing us here in the mountains and I find myself
reaching back to those old memories and the feelings of gratification they
brought. I am not the homemaker my mother was. Though I don’t own full sets of seasonal accouterments and
am quite content with a cursory “shoveling out,” I still employ this “out with
the old” ritual, but in a more internal way.
Unlike in autumn, when I pull in, slow down and use the
darker, fireside coziness to contemplate the workings of my life; in the
springtime I want to shed the heavy skins of what’s no longer working and make
room for a lighter and brighter existence. So this week, I’m going to fling
open the windows of my heart and mind and toss out the old hurts – given and
received – and plant seeds of forgiveness. I’m going to clear the shelves of worn out stories and
replace them with bouquets of happy endings. I’m going sweep out the cobwebs of regret and make room for
the tools of action. I’m going to paint the old, dark walls of fear with the
bright promise of trust and courage. I’m going to tie my dreams to robin’s
wings and let them nest in hope.
And when I’m done, I’m going to sit out on my deck and
listen to the birds and watch the bees and smell the rich, damp earth and send
up a little prayer of thanks that life does, indeed, go on….as renewed,
refreshed and meaningful as I chose to make it.
Namaste
