Both of my babies were born in the Spring. Putting me on the same cycle as Mother Nature with all her renewal and birth and other hippie dippy prose.
The season always gives me hope, usually when I start anew in our garden and plant. It’s a physical activity, one I haven’t been able to do for too many years due to my illness.
That changed this year. With some help from my son, I planted this year’s garden nearly all on my own. Tearing out last year’s weeks, mixing new soil, sowing seeds. I did it. I. ME.
God I can’t even explain how good it felt.
Of course I then got sick and ended up seeing all my doctor’s. But it was so worth it. So very, very worth it.
My next project is my bedroom. Clothes in every size from 6 to 26 have piled up because I’ve refused to get rid of old clothing, swearing I’ll soon be ‘back to normal’ and in my old clothes. I have to face the reality those ‘old’ clothes are six years old. My illness going on year seven.
Seven years of pain.
Seven years of helplessness.
Seven years of guilt.
Seven years of healing.
Year one of hope in the Spring.