I live in a temperate rain forest where trees and shrubs bloom seemingly year round. Our January sidewalks are dusted with cherry blossom petals instead of snow. In place of curtains, our windows are shaded by bough upon bough of camellia flowers.
It wasn't always so. I grew up in New England where it was winter until it was spring. Some of my favorite childhood memories relate to the rituals practiced by my mother to coax spring into our home.
She brought branches of forsythia and pussy willow indoors to force their blooms weeks ahead of their outdoor schedule. We pricked the ends of eggs with a pin, blowing the contents out into a bowl, then dying the shells. A drop of melted wax affixed a thread to the decorated eggs which she then hung from the blooming branches.
There was Easter sunrise service, up on East Rock, then home for hot cross buns and a treasure hunt for the Easter baskets my mother had hidden.
These days I mark the change of the seasons by heading to Portland Nursery to lead a class where we reflect on the personal, familial, and cultural traditions that tether us to the turning of the great wheel of life. This weekend we'll forage from the garden grounds to gather bits to tuck into a spring altar swag.
As we admire each other's creations, we'll offer this simple blessing for the vernal equinox: May the seeds of your intentions be well tended.
It wasn't always so. I grew up in New England where it was winter until it was spring. Some of my favorite childhood memories relate to the rituals practiced by my mother to coax spring into our home.
She brought branches of forsythia and pussy willow indoors to force their blooms weeks ahead of their outdoor schedule. We pricked the ends of eggs with a pin, blowing the contents out into a bowl, then dying the shells. A drop of melted wax affixed a thread to the decorated eggs which she then hung from the blooming branches.
There was Easter sunrise service, up on East Rock, then home for hot cross buns and a treasure hunt for the Easter baskets my mother had hidden.
These days I mark the change of the seasons by heading to Portland Nursery to lead a class where we reflect on the personal, familial, and cultural traditions that tether us to the turning of the great wheel of life. This weekend we'll forage from the garden grounds to gather bits to tuck into a spring altar swag.
As we admire each other's creations, we'll offer this simple blessing for the vernal equinox: May the seeds of your intentions be well tended.
Each leaf,
each blade of grass
vies for attention.
Even weeds
carry tiny blossoms
to astonish us.
~ Marianne Poloskey
Sunday in Spring
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