It has been raining all spring here in Maryland.  It has been a cold wet spring.  Usually at this time we have broken out the shorts and sandals and we are dining on the porch but I am sitting with a sweatshirt on shivering.  It has been gray and drizzely and the weather just matches my mood so well.

I had been waiting all winter for the spring and frankly I am a little disappointed.

I had been waiting for the blossoming and am feeling heavy hearted.

I had been waiting for something to spring forward, new and exciting but am just feeling stuck in the muck, the sticky emotional mud that pulls and splatters.

Last Friday, I wanted to climb into bed with a pint of icecream and a box of feeling sorry for myself but instead I went to my neighbor’s house for pizza.  He had invited a whole gang of folks–people I like, even people I love.  I was so grateful to be surrounded by these wonderful people, people who can make my heart sing but at the same time I was so aware of my otherness–how apart and completely alone and unconnected I felt.

As I sat at the dining table and watched all the families–the couple interacting in their perfectly imperfect ways I was aware of how terribly lonely single parenting can be.  Of how alone I can feel when Max does not need attending to and I am there, just me.  I was so painfully aware of each of the small kindnesses, the  knowing glances, the intimacies around me and knowing that no matter how my communities loves me they don’t love me like that and as much as I don’t want it to be…the tremendous way that they love me…it is not enough.

With each breath I find myself shrinking and growing smaller, unable to give, unable to think, move, act beyond my
own small petty problems.  It weighs on me heavy, and I can’t focus beyond my own small little heart and its small little sorrows.

I lay my head on the pillow and let the tears flow like the rain, leaving my bed cold and wet.

And I wonder, where is the grace that will break me out of this cold wet spring?  I reach into my heart to touch it but all I feel is deep wanting.  It almost consumes me so run from that dark place, slam the door and shrink some more.

I want to build a fire but the wood is wet.  I want to open the door but the wind is forcing it shut.  I want to dance in the sunshine but the rain is falling hard, through the trees.  I want to dwell in hope but this is where I am.

I am here.

12 Responses to “Cold spring”

  1. GreenishLady Says:

    Oh, Meg… you are judging your sorrow to be a small one, when your heart is big enough to hold the sorrows of so many people you encounter. This is not a small sorrow to hold. It is entitled to be honoured for what it is. … I don’t mean to sound “preachy” at you, but it saddens me to see you say that. It saddens me that you are sad too.

  2. Noel Says:

    Hello Meg,

    This past Sunday the sermon at my church was talked a lot about the seasons. Your post reminded me of this excerpt:

    “But now consider the gift of spring. Winter turns to spring, and I like how poet William Carlos Williams envisions the turning of one into the other as a “waste of broad, muddy fields / brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen / patches of standing water / the scattering of tall trees / All along the road the reddish / purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy / stuff of bushes and small trees / with dead, brown leaves under them / leafless vines- / Lifeless in appearance, sluggish / dazed spring approaches-.” This is the turning of winter into spring, and the point is: it’s not pretty. It’s easy to want to go straight to late spring when things are in full bloom, and the gift that spring has to give us is obvious. But early spring has its gift too—early spring, before nature becomes beautiful again, when it is messy, and muddy, and plug ugly. “I have walked in early spring,” Parker Palmer says, “through fields that will suck your boots off, a world so wet and woeful that it makes you yearn for a return of ice.”

    Yet he also says this, “Though spring begins slowly and tentatively, it grows with a tenacity that never fails to touch me. The smallest and most tender shoots insist on having their way, coming up through ground that looked, only a few weeks earlier, as if it would never grow anything again. […] [With all the mess and the muck,] I can find it hard to credit the small harbingers of larger life to come, hard to hope until the outcome is secure. Spring teaches me,” he says, “to look more carefully for the green stems of possibility; for the intuitive hunch that may turn into a larger insight, for the glance or touch that may thaw a frozen relationship, for the stranger’s act of kindness that makes the world seem hospitable again.” All this is the gift of spring, especially early spring, when everything feels so messy, and yet the green stems of possibility are there and all we must do is wait and watch for them, make ourselves available to them, NOT wall ourselves off by impenetrable cynicism, open up our hearts. ”

    I hope this can help.

  3. Noel Says:

    eep I’d written in my wrong website lol

    The full text of the sermon, if you want to read it, is here: http://www.uuca.org/sermon.php?id=218

  4. GreenishLady Says:

    I’m back again… to say I’m passing on an “Excellent Blogger” award to you. It’s on my blog. Your writing inspires and touches me deeply.

  5. Another Meg Says:

    I’m wearing socks to bed, we threw the extra blanket on, and the furnace is set to come on overnight if the outside temps, forecast to be in the 40s AGAIN, should make the house temp dip below the mid 60s.

    This is the weekend when traditionally, swimming pools open and folks flock to the beach. The weather guy on the radio said today that the ocean temps are still in the mid-50s, so bring your wetsuit if you plan to swim.

    I, too, am done with this Maryland spring. It’s been good for growing grass, which we needed to do here, but it has not been good for my spirit. Bring on the sun!!

  6. Kara aka Mother Henna Says:

    (((((((((((((((hugs to you Meg)))))))))))))))))
    I know exactly what you are writing about when you say you are in a room full of people you love and yet feel totally disconnected and alone. I feel like this when we’re out with friends — or even my husband’s daughter — because they all have little kids. Our Kota should be there, nine years old, full of normal kid energy and curiosity and fun or moodiness or whatever. And it isn’t like anyone would care if I mentioned him or wouldn’t understand if I talked about it. But that’s not it. It’s the deep well that was carved by grief’s hands. I’m there and engaged, but not. And some part of me always feels like an alien.

    Anyway… just hugs to you…

    Also, I tagged you 🙂 in my latest entry if you want to play tag 🙂

    http://motherhenna.blogspot.com/2008/05/q-tagged-and-friday-fill-in.html

    Miracles,
    k-

  7. bella Says:

    my dear one,
    you are here.
    this is the most powerful statement of all.
    no apologies. no glossing over. no denial. no pretension. Just here.
    I know its not fun, pleasant, where you want to be.
    I feel your sadness, your loneliness, your restlessness.
    And I’m just here to say, I see you, right here, where you are.
    love to you,
    Bella

  8. Jena Says:

    Amen.

  9. thodarumm Says:

    HUGE HUGS Meg!
    I hear the sun is goign to shine on all of us this weekend.

  10. Karen Says:

    So honest and true. No one needs hope to be here.

  11. Jen Ballantyne Says:

    Darling Meg, it seems as though we have been waiting for Spring to arrive over there for you for an age now, ever since I put some photos of my blossom trees on my blog at the start of October, you were craving some Spring time then. It will come my sweet friend, you deserve a beautiful, green, softly scented, Spring complete with new life, new love, renewal at it’s best. Believe, keep believing, it is coming, keep holding on as you have been so bravely, so tenaciously and you will have your full reward, I feel sure of it. As we head into Winter over here in Australia, it will be you having to remind me that Spring will turn up again. We are not Winter women you and I, I tend to find Winter oppressive after a while. Yes, I like to sit by the fire sometimes,I like to go for walks in the rain, I like to drink hot chocolate and wear gloves and scarves and hats but not for long, then I long to throw off the shackles, reminiscent of ‘mole’, and welcome in the carefree feeling that comes along with Springtime. I wish it in all its beauty for you Meg and know that my heart and thoughts are with you when you feel so alone and small. There is nothing small about your heart my friend, nothing indeed. Love you as always xx

  12. maggie, dammit Says:

    The weird thing is, I feel this way, too. And I am married to a wonderful man, tucked safe inside a secure nuclear family.

    Sometimes sad is just sad. Sometimes lonely is just lonely. Sometimes the world is just too, too, too much.

    Sometimes the only comfort comes in knowing there are others feeling just like you. And thinking of you.