I was at the coffee shop the other day and Charles pointed to the rosebush and said "that thing's tryin' to bloom out already." Those few days of warm weather had inspired it to flower and at its first chance, new growth had already sprouted. The cold to come will of course bite into the new shoots of green, baring them back to the thicker, tempered parts of the stem. How often have we thought "finally! this is it! I'm here, I have arrived" only to be snapped back by the cold, back to our thicker, weathered parts? It's almost enough to induce a winter within, our parts withdrawn for protection. Yet as the rose knows, spring will most certainly come and the beauty produced by that striving is a reward worth a thousand winters. Thoughts of previous seasons ends may stifle, the knowing that the cold will come again, yet every time we bloom it is an opportunity to recognize that we are the stem, the flower and the seed. We are the pollen that is picked up by spring breezes, spreading out in order to know life more fully. It's as if the heart were made of it, always willing to give up a part of itself to the wind in hopes of new, expansive knowing. Let us remember this when we next feel the urge to burst into bloom and fly into it with reckless abandon. There is the life all around us, and its song will fill us wholly.

I had a dream last night, the night of my birthday. There were two men, somewhat unsavory characters, obviously willing to thieve and not in it for everyone's best interest. They were trying to fix my family's house but mostly sat around talking about what should be done. My cats happened to wake me just as the dream ended, else I probably wouldn't have remembered it so well. I pondered the meaning this morning and realized the two men to be characters in my mind, one with good intentions, one in it for himself, for the idea he represented, ignorant to the rest of life. As I sat in the brisk, moist and sometimes biting wind, I knew these to be the ideas that sat on top of my heart, trying to handle the forces of existence with hands trained by experience. Yet too fearful he was and thus shut out anything that posed too much of an uncertainty. The extent to which this had muted my life became starkly obvious. It was like eating Indian food for the first time, realizing how many flavors I had been missing out on. The sun seemed brighter, all colors more vivid, all sounds more full. The defense of my heart was ignoring that it has a voice of its own, strong, resonant and supreme. It needs no keeper of mind and thought; the pair were like doormen of the house of a god, learned in the words She speaks yet oblivious to the reality of Her presence.

So I was left with a cleaner lense. So strong is the habit of the body, of yesterdays and fears saved. So quick our spirit is to wrap itself in the garments of mind, of cloaks once so useful yet so cumbersome and restrictive. The seed has its protective hull, but that hull must ultimately be shed so that the magnitude of the tree can grow forth, complete with protective skin and sturdy frame unto itself. We are the same. Let the spirit drop beneath the veils. No matter how thick the protective layers, in calm states they align and are seen to be transparent, workable by this power that sees, this choice that we are.