I am not a winter person.
Let me take that back. I am a winter person for exactly 5 days. Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Years Eve, and the 2-3 days it actually snows in East Tennessee and we get up early to start the fire. This feels like a monumental step for me because, previously, I was not a winter person at all but it is my lot in life to have married a winter person. Those 5 days are a sign that I’m capable of growth and change.
I can’t decide if I’m a spring or summer person. Truth be told I love them both and if no one is making me choose then I won’t.
The firsts of spring make me giddy. I try to keep track of all the new growth and blooms at first. “Look at you!” and “who are you?” I think as little green shoots pop up in early spring. I love the signs of new life, the warming days, how it seems like nature and people alike wake up from the long, cold, dark winter. The wild violets always feel like spring’s calling card. They look like they’re having a party, all massed together throughout the grass, and when I see those little dots of deep purple my soul genuinely seems to smile.
There is one part of spring (aside from the pollen assaulting my olfactory system trying to rob me of my joy and convincing me I have COVID every other day) that stresses me out. In early spring, just when things seem to be going good and we’re out of winter’s bony grasp, it makes one last desperate attempt to pull us back in. You know how in a horror movie you think the protagonist is finally about to escape but then the bad guy comes out of nowhere and pulls her back in kicking and screaming? Winter just can’t seem to let us go and sends one final chilling frost or, even worse, an unexpected snowstorm to freeze us out.
This stresses me out every. single. time. As happy as all of these new flowers and early sprigs of green make me I also want to run around telling them “Wait! It’s too soon! Not yet! You’re not gonna make it.” The daffodils, the wild violets, the dogwood blooms, I just know after the frost they’ll be goners. I desperately want to protect them and shelter them because I want them to last. Sometimes I actually do shelter them (because I’m a plant lady now) and sprint around the backyard throwing blankets over what are now “my azaleas.”
And every year, without fail, they’re fine. They make it. They get knocked down under the weight of the frost but then they bounce right back up. The frost fades or the snow thaws and there they are, those resilient tiny little beacons of springtime hope. They’re a reminder that life isn’t always sunny and 70 degrees and yet you can still survive. A reminder that, in fact, they were growing their hope all throughout the darkness of winter and one off day isn’t going to knock them out.
And every year, without fail, I’m reminded of a Bible verse when I see those little flowers. “Look at the lilies! They don’t toil and spin, and yet Solomon in all his glory was not robed as well as they are. And if God provides clothing for the flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, don’t you suppose that he will provide clothing for you, you doubters?” - Luke 12:27-28
I am a doubter. I’m an anxious person. I’ve always got worst case scenario creeping around the corner. Maybe I can get to a place where I start to think that the frost will come and never end and it will just be winter forever like in Narnia and then all the flowers will die which means so will the bees and we can’t live without bees so I guess all of humanity will die too.
I believe this is called catastrophizing.
When I’m anxious, stressed, or worried I’ve found myself whispering the mantra “Even the wildflowers.” It’s my way of remembering that I will be taken care of. That I am taken care of. That this too shall pass. That even the thing I’m really stressed or worried about (like all the flowers in the whole world dying) is completely out of my control, so why spend precious energy ruminating on the unlikeliest of scenarios? In the end, everything will be okay, and maybe I didn’t need to be in control in the first place. It’s a reminder that, much like the flowers, I too can come out on the other side of life’s unexpected frosts with hope and resilience. A little stronger, a little taller, a little more beautiful for having weathered the storm.
I use it almost like a breath prayer. I breathe in and on the way out I whisper “even the wildflowers.” It grounds me. It centers me. Sometimes, even the smallest twinge of a smile will creep into the corners of my mouth remembering those tough tiny flowers. I gather strength from myself, from those floral inspirations, and from the knowledge that there is Someone much bigger who cares deeply for me and about me.
Even the wildflowers. Even the wildflowers. Even the wildflowers.