Last night, coming home from a girlfriend’s house, the proverbial skies opened up. I laughed as I walked down the street, an unopened umbrella hanging from my wrist.
“Seriously?” I yelled at the sky.
“Seriously,” she answered.
And with every cold drop that hit my face, I smiled a little wider. Because seriously? This is what it feels like when our hearts love a little harder? This is what it feels like when we finally get honest with ourselves and our souls? I thought it would be warmer. I thought I’d use my umbrella.
Remember when we transplanted all those plants last year? You taught me how to firmly grasp each root ball so as to save the center of it all. How to gently massage them, letting them know we were quietly waking them up, moving them to bigger and better places to unfurl. It’s a delicate process. When the rains came last night, they watered all those seeds I planted a long time ago. I didn’t know it would rain that hard. I didn’t know how it hurts to grow.
Last night’s rain took the last of the remaining leaves from the tree outside my bedroom window. This morning I woke to bare branches and missed the amazing yellow I’ve been so blessed to wake to for the last few weeks.
But I know that come next spring, green tips will push their way out of dark soil, strong and sure of themselves, regardless of how far they are from where they came. And they will breathe in the scent of a love well learned and they will bask in the glow of a heart well worn. And we will scatter our seeds again and again and again. Because we are perennial. And we are loved.