the spirituality of early spring is grand but never pretty...

This week will be given to small tasks: grocery shopping, bread baking, clearing  the land of a hard winter's detritus, putting books away in my study, walking the dog, breaking bread with old friends, and reading. Lots and lots of reading. After a full week of stomach flu, this place is a wreck. Yesterday was given fully to cleaning bathrooms and then vacuuming and scouring the kitchen. The rest of March must now go towards: a front yard still saturated from the ice of January; the wide flat land in the back that is littered with twigs and branches; and the bramble and grape leaves in the wetlands that must be cut back lest they devour us all. I can make a real dent on this mess if the weather cooperates. Sun is in the forecast till Friday, so we'll see.

Over the past year, I have been "beholding" what God is already doing in my life. I have also been reacquainting myself with the spirituality of the seasons. A trusted guide in this process has been the written reflections of Parker Palmer who writes:

Before spring becomes beautiful, it is plug ugly, nothing but mud and muck. I have walked in the early spring through fields that will suck your boots off, a world so wet and woeful it makes you yearn for the return of ice. But in that muddy mess, the conditions for rebirth are being created. bI love the fact that the word “humus”–the decayed vegetable matter that feeds the roots of plants–comes from the same word root that gives rise to the word “humility.” It is a blessed etymology. It helps me understand that the humiliating events of life, the events that leave “mud on my face” or that “make my name mud,” may create the fertile soil in which something new can grow. (See

https://fetzer.org/blog/enter-spring-parker-palmer-muses-season)

Walking through the fields yesterday with Lucie reminded me of the wisdom of Palmer's words. It was on full display. Besides a massive crop of mud arising all around me, it was full of garbage, dog shit and all manner of unrecognizable debris. Part of the work of this season in these parts, you see, is making peace with the mess. Not ignoring it, not letting it overwhelm me, but never being shocked that it is real. Good boots, old clothes, tick repellent, and strong work gloves make a huge difference when added to time on task and quiet patience. Tending to the humus can be gratifying - in a humble way - if it is honored with a commitment to incremental transformation. 

A lot can be accomplished in a few hours every day out in the muck, but you have to be prepared for slow change. Early spring can be grand, but around here, it never starts out pretty. Some 25 years ago I told a friend, "This Lent I want to fast and study. I want to be open to the bold grace of Jesus." He smiled and then said: "How about you just light a candle every morning and share a quiet prayer? That is something you can accomplish. Why set yourself up for disappointment." He was so wise.

So without stretching the connection too far, I think that the wisdom of the land in early spring yearns to inform how I move through Lent. There is truly not a lot I can do about most things whether that's the current assault on Gaza by Israel, the devastation in Zimbabwe after the storms, or the weaponization of the news by the current regime. Yes, I can make a few changes: I can publicize the atrocities while calling for accountability, make modest contributions from time to time, and be in contact with my legislators. I can be prayerful as well. 

Of equal importance, however, is tending to the muck that is closest to me. Jean Vanier of L'Arche wisely tells us:

We need each other. We need places of belonging. Hidden in our hearts is the God of compassion, the God of forgiveness, the God of peace. In Calcutta we have communities where Muslims, Hindus and Christians live together. In other areas of Calcutta, on one side there is a Muslim community, on the other a Christian community, with all the tensions you can imagine. We cannot resolve the problems of Northern Ireland, Calcutta, between Israel and Palestine. We cannot resolve the problems of Haiti and the problems in some parts of South America. But what we can do is change the world - one heart at a time.

The work of early spring teaches me to go slow: be prepared for lots of muss and fuss. At the same time, practice savoring the incremental new life that is gradually arising from the mire. A crocus is peeking out here. A daffodil is trying to stand up under a pile of leaves. Small acts of tenderness or a kind word shared with the old woman at Wal-Mart opens both of our hearts to the taste of trust right here and right now. Henri Nouwen puts the life of Jesus into the context of Lent like this:

Again and again you see how Jesus opts for what is small, hidden, and poor, and accordingly declines to wield influence. His many miracles always serve to express his profound compassion with suffering humanity; never are they attempts to call attention to himself. As a rule, he even forbids those he has cured to talk to others about it. And as Jesus’ life continues to unfold, he becomes increasingly aware that he has been called to fulfill his vocation in suffering and death. In all of this, it becomes plain to us that God has willed to show his love for the world by descending more and more deeply into human frailty.

So, let's see: there's a ton of work to be done today. And all week. There's some bread to be baked, too.