GRACE IN ACTION
by Patrica Monaghan
Spring would be the beginning, if there were beginnings.
In fact, the world's seasons spiral out from one other. There can be
fall in summer, winter in autumn; sudden snow can freeze the summer crop, a
warm wind melts the icy river. We complain and call the weather unseasonable,
but we are not surprised. We are delighted when summer floods into fall, or a
fall-crisp day appears like a miracle in mid-winter. But we are not surprised.
We know that, in the flux of seasons, we see each one more than once.
But spring seems different. There is, sometimes in January, a spring
day when buds swell and flies' eggs hatch; there is, sometimes late in May, a
winter storm to decimate the flowers. Both disturb us, disturb our springtime
dream of waking into ceaseless sun and easy growth, or soft buds that flame
into lasting blossoms, of graceful ease, easeful grace. Dozens of springs that
creep upon us unawares then fade imperceptibly into summer can never convince
us the season will not arrive in just one trumpet day. Spring, we fiercely
believe, comes once to us and stays.
We believe as much of a woman's seasons. Spring, we fancy, come to us
once, goes once, is gone forever But women spiral through life's season like
the world: there are days of growth in youth, in midlife, in age, just as there
are losses and cold in each. There may be a concentration of spring energies
in the maiden, but she can feel as well the forces of fullness and decline.
Women in their prime are maids and crones at once. And every aged woman knows
still the wild spring winds.
And when it comes, spring does not simply blow upon the warming air
like blossom kisses. Spring is as much a time of pain as of growth. Imagine
the egg, the bulb, the bud. All begin contained---all potential, endless
promise. There is a quiet dignity in such presence There is no strain, no
disturbance by passion or power. The being rests within itself.
But when growth begins, things break. Shells and bud casings, those
intact perfections, fall away. What is revealed is unprotected tenderness. It
is no illusion, this fragility. A fierce storm can shred the new leaf, a cat
consumes the tiny bird, a hapless word pierce the young woman's heart.
To the beholder, there is only, the maiden gaze with its vulnerable
longing. Springtime empowers its witnesses. And the woman gazing back may
feel, indeed, the riveting power of her growth and potential. Or she may feel
only the pain of new skin against cold wind, of exposed flesh against cruel
stares.
There are times the hatchling yearns for the shell, the woman for her girlhood.
There are times the new body seems alien and ill-formed, the new skills
awkward and mistaken, the new knowledge not power but frailty. Growth may be
exhilarating but it is never easy.
And it is costly. Just as the bulb devours itself in order to burst
above the soil, just as the hatchling digests its egg's world, the woman tears
springtime out of herself. She has little time for generosity; she is focussed
within, on her deepest movements, her pain, her hopefulness. She is all stunned
inwardness.
She is one, alone, unique. She is pierced with wonder at her existence.
And from this wonder, she creates her world. It is a new world, for
the world has never before been inhabited by her singular being. Her creation
is a dance of wonder and power, of energy and discovery. Her dance draws all
eyes, for although she has never before lived, she lives now, and in living
changes the very essence of the world.
She is in each of us. We hold her within us, just as we hold all
seasons. Bend towards her when she sings her rasping song of growth. Honor
both her pain and all her promises. And remember, too, to dance with her, for
she is the power of movement and change. She is the soul within the body, the
spirit flashing forth from flesh. She is the power of green life. She is the
first being in the world---and she is you.
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