It’s hard to write about spring without sounding trite. Yet, no matter how many cheesy love poem metaphors I’ve seen, no matter how many spring seasons I’ve lived, nature still manages to take my breath away every year.
There is a subtle magic that flows through this showy time of pollination and birth that stirs the blood with renewed life.
A few days ago, I returned from a week-long healing class in North Carolina. I had left California in a rainstorm that almost washed away the culverts on our Cobb Mountain property. Except for a few brave blooming things, the local plants stayed a silent green.
When I got home, though, just a week later, a different landscape greeted me. The rosemary and lilac bushes around our house had filled up with blooms. The buck brush (despite its unflattering name) had lit up the dull, brushy hillside with gorgeous splashes of white. Snowdrops and shooting stars and baby blue eyes graced the earth at my feet.
Things can change so quickly, even with almost imperceptible daily motion. The week away offered me perspective to see just how drastic those changes can be.
As several of you know, I am in my fifth year of study with wildernessFusion, the school that teaches Niasziih (the way of healing I practice). For six months now, my class has focused on working with cancer. At class, I have the awesome opportunity to work on a team with other Niasziih practitioners. After working with the same clients in healing sessions for a couple of days, we go through an intense journey of examining ourselves, the healing sessions, and our different perspectives on the cancer—all to better understand how we can more fully help clients to achieve the results they desire.
We humans all have things about ourselves we are unaware of, and a great part of the work my teachers, classmates and I do is to dig into those places that have been in shadow for us. The only way I know to do this (to become aware of that “mole on the back of my neck”) is to ask someone I trust to point out those places to me. It’s painful at times. The things we hide most from ourselves are often tucked away for a very good reason—we’d rather not look at them. However, they hold the keys to opening up our universe.
New perspective offers the possibility for everything to change—even the very physical reality of cancer.
I am grateful for my clients and colleagues who serve as mirrors for me, and for the honor to serve as a mirror in return. Only when we see something can we consciously change. I’m also grateful for the plants around us that live their cycles, rooted in the soil and then bursting into unabashed spring splendor, reminding us that steady, subtle presence can yield dramatic results.