Out of the Dark, Into the Light ~

This little purple-striped beauty broke through the ground in my garden a few days ago, just in time for Easter weekend.

She did what the season of Lent asked of her: she tucked herself away in the dark for awhile, she let herself be nourished by the stillness around her, she allowed for some isolation and waiting. And then, as if she could hear the church-bells start to chime out their glad anthem, she sprung out of her slumber in time as if to say "aren't I pretty?!"

Personal attentiveness to the season of Lent is a newer idea to me. I'd heard of such a thing when I was younger, but since these Lenten tales usually involved the surrender of something chocolaty, I just couldn't see myself going that far.

Awhile back, when I found myself dipping my toes into liturgical waters, waters with spiritual practices I found intriguing, I discovered I was more open to Lent and how it might look in my own life.

I didn't know where to begin. I asked around, I listened to homilies, I read a few tiny guidebooks, I listened to friends. The sweetest guidance I received came from a friend who told me that Lent could be whatever I wanted it to be, that it didn't have to be dictated by anyone else. She also offered that I didn't need to limit my thoughts to "giving something up". She offered that I could enlarge my Lenten practice, my experience, and hopefully my spirit, by "taking something on".  That's more like it.

This season, I did do a bit of letting go, but I let myself take something on as well. My tiny yard has quite a few bare spots asking for some attention, and I'd rather crowd out weeds than pull them, so I decided that I would plant one bulb every day during the season. If I did the math, that's 40 bulbs in 40 days.

The bulbs were planted at night, on my last run out to the yard with Maggie, right before tucking in. I liked the idea of planting in the dark, it felt holy and symbolic, like a true act of faith. What I didn't consider is that a girl with bad eyes who cannot see in the dark and who has the slightest kink in her short-term memory, would likely forget where she planted last night's bulb.

Now, with Lent behind us, this little purple-striped beauty will have others popping up out of the ground to join her in the garden. I imagine she's looking around for them just like I am. Since their planting was staggered, their debuts will be also. Here's where I might mention how great it will be that, with Lent lasting 40 days, I get to be dazzled by the sight of 40 separate plants showing off in my yard each morning, once a few more weeks go by. Here's where I might confess that Mags and I didn't make it out to the yard for planting every night. A few of my other Lenten practices were not marked by perfection either. Just check my Starbucks receipts and my recumbent bike odometer and you'll know what I mean. Ah well, the practice of Lent, the grace of Lent. Imperfection. I imagine that is the idea.

And yet, with Easter and its celebrations just a day away, there is more color in my yard, more color than there was when my priest gently applied ashes to my forehead and reminded me that I come from the dust. There is more hope, hope that comes from seeing what some waiting might give birth to. And there is more light, because even in the dark, it simply will not be overcome. It will, in good time, break through.