Now, it's not just the wild roses and snowberries. The flowering red currants are leafing out too. And all over the city, the tips of the tree branches are growing, pale green dots on the cherry branches, red commas on the tips of the alders, as if the God of Spring is a calligrapher, writing the season plant by plant.
It is the changing time. And I am changing time too. Over the last year, I learned to be slow again, to enter the kind of formless time that would let me hear the smallest, deepest places in my core. I had to learn to stay there, and to return, return, return, in spite of the pain of my injury and the tasks of living. And I did, and I healed and I remembered that fast is not my only pace.
I’m coming out of the dream time now, re-entering task-type time as I return to work. Woo-hoo!! But I won’t stay only there. I know now that the work requires travelling back and forth: Into the dream, the story, the deep well. Out into the world, the agenda, the people and needs and minute-by-minute work of a day.
I think I’ve learned how to do this time travel, to pulse back and forth, not hour to hour but moment to moment, like shifting my weight from one foot to another. I have. I am carrying it out.
The trees are in that same pulse. Like the race at their tips is swelling out of the long, still connected quiet of winter. Like they are reaching and also listening.