We had a white Easter this year, drove home through falling snow from our family dinner Saturday night. Sometimes seasons don’t come as you expect.
And the bus transfer I received this morning says it is the 100th day of the year, which got me thinking how many different ways we measure days and count seasons, 100 days into 2015, 10 days into April, 5 days into Easter, 20 days into Spring although like I said, Winter has been taunting us on its way out the door. Today I am 26 months into motherhood, which seems both completely normal and utterly impossible, and I am realizing more and more how motherhood is a whole genre of seasons unto itself. The baby I birthed has morphed into a funny, affectionate, independent child who can follow instructions, make decisions, give giant hugs and sleep through the night.
And it keeps striking me that I’m in a new season I hardly recognize, where much of my time is my own to use as I please, where the things that keep me busy are things I’ve signed up for, not dominoes piling up from decisions I made months or years ago. It’s refreshing, but its awkward too, and I want to make the most of the space I have to breathe. I want to get out and see friends; I want to play music and write poems and create something adorable for at least one of the babies I know are on their way to the world; I want to binge-watch season 1 of the Mindy Project on Netflix.
What I don’t want is to daydream this season away, like the summers I grew up with a front-yard view of the ocean and hardly ever went down to the beach. My theory is that no matter what the season is, starry feelings can only last for so long, and good intentions very quickly yield to the status quo. I’ve been thinking about that a lot with this Easter season as well. My goals for Lent went out the window pretty fast, but Holy Week wrapped me up in repentance, and Easter rose like a new thing: the miracle of resurrection and the torn veil and a Messiah who took the time to trace back all the lines in scripture that pointed to him so his stunned disciples could make sense of what had happened.
So here I am at the start of a new season without quite knowing what to expect, except that I want to savour it, to breathe it in thick like the lilies that say He is Risen, and that I am alive in Him.