The Wisdom of Spring

At the age of 15, I would have said that I was the fall personified. Calm, warm, my movements still and swift like the cool breeze flowing through the air, offering reprieve to those seeking solace from the complexities of life, in the shade of the trees and ever changing leaves.

My sister was summer, without a doubt. Unbridled warmth, sometimes to the point at which it was uncomfortable to be around her. Shining so bright with potential it practically hurt to be close to her, as much as you wanted to be able to handle the heat. You simply couldn't, on account of the regular risk of catching fire, enduring the raging fire until it either burned itself out by suffocation, or was put out by the strong, impenetrable wind that was her own will to move on.

My mother was the spring, always hopeful, always breathing life into me and my siblings, always new at the beginning of each day. She could be timid, but in the right way, holding back the damaging things so there was room for us to grow and thrive in the environment, despite how unpredictably harsh they could be.

My father was winter. There was a hardness about him, a frosty covering over once fertile ground that now forbade any seeds that chanced to exist to grow into anything that lasted long. The ground had learned that, inevitably, all things came to an end, and to be sure not to incur any more scars from trees and growth now gone, it simply did not allow any such thing to take root. And all that it had now was held to with a white-knuckle grip, to an oppressive degree, as if to disallow any of it to leave, not matter how much it needed to have a chance to live again.

By the age of 15, I had developed a strong closeness to my mother. I do believe it was the similarity in our understanding of the complexities of emotion. Her cool breeze and my warm breeze both encouraging movement, change, growth, and the assurance that things could be different than they had been.

We met under the same tree often, both needing warmth to battle my father's winter air. It was rare that my father joined us, yet the frigid air could still be felt from time to time in our conversations about the colors in our leaves and what they appeared to signify.

My sister seemed to feel as thought she had the perfect opposition to my father, with her high temperature and abundant space for a variety of activities distracting from the inevitable arrival of winter and cold. Her unrelenting sun, on the surface, certainly did opposed my father's sun, often covered by unrelenting overcast clouds looming above, casting a white film across the sky which stopped all activity in its stride.

Only, my sister was not different from my father, for one reason which seemed to be obvious to everyone except for her. Despite the open air, the freedom, the fun, my sister also lacked a breeze of change. The hot air pervaded her skies and made it difficult for anyone under them to enjoy them for too long without seeking shelter, as it was with my father's weather as well. Between the two, one had to choose between inevitable sunburn or frostbite, a result of the fact that each carried and often lived to the potential to provide an extremity with their conditions.

At least with my father one could add layers of protection. Another scarf, thicker gloves, whatever one needed to be able to tread the frozen ground to make it home to warmth. With my sister, their was little reprieve outside of the choice to remain indoors until the weather cooled, or a thunderstorm came and nourished the ground.

At 22 I had been used to both of their patterns and how to avoid or traverse them if need be to survive. My winter gloves were always ready at my side, as well as my sunblock, shades, and aloe. Not only could I be prepared at a moment's notice, but I would often fully equip myself with protection from the weather without even a single thought. I could travel through a desert land which might become a frozen pond with the turn of a head without the smallest amount of fear or apprehension. I was ready, I was protected--but also I was guarded.

It wasn't until I was 24 that I realized what effect this had on my own patterns. I had endured these extremes for what felt like my whole life, and all it took was the slightest change in weather for me to gear up and get to work protecting others from the experiences I had myself. The warm breeze still offered change and encouragement, but also kept others at a distance, ushering them away from the storm growing through the years, one I had only just begun to discover.

Soon my wind brought rain, covering everyone who came to me for solace, and I found that less and less returned as time went on. My own trees became vacant and I in turn spent many days under them in tears of grief for the company my storm had cost me.

I asked my father what to do, how to manage the storm. "Don't let anyone see the storm," he said, "distract them at all costs. They must not know the storm exists."

I asked my sister next. "Add more sun," she said, "for it is hard to be angry when you're busy being happy!"

Then I looked for my mother, underneath our tree, where I always found her in times of need. My mother said nothing at first, she simply sat there in the shade of our tree, looking out into the field ahead.

"I understand," she finally said, holding my hand. "I have fought the same storm myself, and there some things you need to know. First, it is not your fault. You were born into this hurricane, by no choice of your own, and I am so sorry it is what you have had to grow through, your sister as well. Her sweltering sun is only the result of her adapting to the cold she has experienced her whole life on account of your father.

Second, it is not your father's fault either. His own father gave him the same experience you have had, only worse. There was no reprieve, no shelter for him. This is all he knew his whole life, and now it is all he knows how to offer.

Third, you cannot protect others from your storm by distracting them or drowning them out with sun as you have been advised. That will only push them away further.

And last, know you can change the storm. It is not who you are, only a pattern of weather which came from the conditions you have lived in until now. The rains and winds you are holding back do no have to hurt other people, but instead they can be used to help others nurture and grow the ground they stand on, move through their own grey skies and to know they are not alone in their own storm."

I sat with my mother, pondering her words.

"So...the storm is ok?"

My mother laughed softly. "My dear, of course it is. The storm is proof that you have the ability to love, as you have allowed yourself to connect to the pain and grief of others and feel it for yourself, and that is a rare and beautiful thing."

I held my mother's hand for a time, wordless and peaceful.

As I stood to leave, one last thought crossed my mind.

"Mother," I said, " Whatever happened to your storm?"

My mother smiled.

"I have been sharing it with you, all these years, under this tree of ours. The winds that have blown through the leaves, the rain that has nourished the ground to keep it standing--those have been mine, intended to help you recognize yours to be able to do the same."

I looked down. "But mother, what if I can't do it as well as you have?"

"My dear,," said my mother, "I have seen what you can do already with what you have been given. I have no doubt that with your storm you will change the world."

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