hidden mother

The first day of spring is about celebrating balance, between light and dark, between action and rest, between here and the underworld.  It feels like I have been underground, living, breathing, and hiding for months now.  My inner landscape seems to have taken precedence over my outer one, but not today.  This is the day when I begin to surface, bringing into physical shape what the dark winter months have grown.

The seeds I found in my mother's house after she died last May are just the shape I long to see.  She collected seeds in old envelopes, marked them, and hoped for a new spring.  

Part of me doesn't want to plant these seeds because I want to keep everything as it is. Cracking open the envelope forces me to let go of old shapes, ones I don't want to let go of--my mother's hands, her looping cursive, her dream of once saving these for another garden, another spring--but I know I need to plant these seeds because they hold her shape too.  

She may be hidden from me physically, but not today. Slowly, I begin to find a balance between her and me.