“The year is a book, isn’t it, Marilla? Spring’s pages are written in Mayflowers and violets, summer’s in roses, autumn’s in red maple leaves, and winter in holly and evergreen.” – Anne of the Island
Spring makes poets of us all, doesn’t it? The idea of dead things returning to life, year after year, never ceases to stir up wonder. Every spring, I’m surprised at how much I have forgotten over the colder months. Namely, that I have forgotten a part of myself that thrives on natural beauty.
Oklahoma can be very ugly in the winter — we usually get a dusting of snow, but not always the kind that blankets the ground and brings with it a quiet hush. So as soon as the daffodils opened in our backyard a few days ago, followed by the redbuds bursting into their purple glory, that small part of me that had been dormant was reawakened.
Spring and talk of the promise of transformation go hand in hand. But don’t you find it remarkable that this pattern of death to life, life to death, are built into the patterns of the world?
One of my all-time favorite children’s books is The Secret Garden, for this very reason. Frances Hodgson Burnett uses the seasons of nature to mimic the growth and transformation of the book’s heroine, Mary Lennox, reminding the reader that our lives, too, are composed of pages marking the different seasons of our lives (and that winter cannot be skipped!).
Spring is the season of hope. While hardship and even death are guaranteed milestones in our own transformation, it is true in literature, nature, and in life: the broken and ugly pieces of our lives can be transformed into achingly beautiful things.
