The quickening. Can you feel it too?
That is the word that has been coming to my mind again and again these past few weeks. And lo and behold, it is also one (of the many) names given to this week’s full moon.
The beginning of things. Or more accurately, the middle. Almost the tipping point, but not quite.
The slow, gradual journey to fecundity, started with tiny seeds, and now itching our skin from the inside, almost ready to be found on the outside, in our bodies moving, full again. Full of life, which of course we are all through these sleepy winter months, but still, full in louder ways, full and abundant–that is what we are now stepping foot after foot towards. It’s thrilling. And the word on the tip of my tongue so perfect, so encapsulating of these feelings stirred in the blood by so little a thing as earlier sunrises and daffodil shoots.
When you feel those first few butterfly flutters of new life in your womb, the moment is a rush of excitement and awe, wonder and delight. But everything is wrapped in the yarn of anticipation. Don’t we love those little fingers and feet brushing against us from the mystery of inside out? Even when all that is to come is still hidden. Everything is unknown.
Of course, we feel this way about a farming season too. The eager anticipation that begins with making the plans, ordering the seeds. Germinating before germination. Cleaning up the seed starting greenhouse, mixing the potting soil. And then, sowing. Tediously filling up a large space with very tiny things. It is all so good. Good because of what it means, what it intends–because the real birth of a season comes much later when we see what kind of spring weather we’ll have, how much rain and when and for how long, and whatever other particular awesomenesses or challenges arise from the earth along with those plants. A mystery teasing us now in its all promising way, quickening our pace bit by bit until soon it will require full laboring.
And then, reaping, always abundantly, one way or another.
But for now, I will stir that word around in my mouth a while longer. I know too well that the cycle goes by faster and faster with each breath. The quickening. For now, while we are still able to pause and savor it all easily, without too much weight or worry, we will revel in the magic that is the unknowing, in the promise. Spring is magic. And hope, faith.
All things sweetly anticipated and reverently moved towards are more graciously received. The whole process is a joy, each part inseparable from the whole.
My pulse quickens at the thought of those long, ripe days of summer; I seriously long for hot and sweaty skin, I do love the sun so. But when it arrives, it will be all the better because of this season of calm. Watching those perky daffodils grow without any hurry, their greens a cheery sight, there yellow bonnet flowers so much the more, I attempt the same myself.
It is the quickening, but that translates to slow and steady, inch by inch. It is a happy pace, and definitely a picked up pace. But not rushed, nor wild. It is that special place between worlds. It carries movement towards, healthy, sure growth.
Like an expectant mother, we wait. But like her too, we nourish ourselves while we can. We prepare for the birth of the season.