snow laden foxgloves

It feels unfair. Leaves still on trees, foxgloves blooming, rose bushes with opening buds and yet pillows of snow on every leaf, every blossom. I didn't expect this, and so it has caught me by surprise. In the midst of my growing grief this has taken my breath away like an unexpected blow across the face. Undeniable, I reach for my scarf and winter coat. For the past months the weather has been saving grace in my life. I felt a kinship with the untidiness of my garden and it flourished without human direction. Since closing my office in Bryn Mawr I have felt a sense of loss of that dream of the" Wellness Collective". It was such a lovely idea to have a group of practitioners working in the same space, offering services to enhance and maintain wellness. It was an idea worth working toward. Investing our hearts and our time we just couldn't sustain it for long enough to pay the bills. I'm not sure where to go from here...There is value in pausing for a moment and allowing the journey to unfold in it's own time. And so, I remind myself to trust the process, to be the process and to savour this period of incubation, or relaxation, enjoying my free time to catch up on accounts, take a long walk, and day dream. My life has changed so much and so quickly over the past six years that I haven't had a chance to adjust or integrate the new opportunities I have been offered. I remember the fall 25 years ago, with an undiagnosed, ruptured ectopic pregnancy: the pain, and recovery. The realization that I had experienced a near death episode and the second chance I had received with wonder and delight. My determination to devote myself to parenthood and my ignorance about what that might bring over the course of my life. I'm still not sure, but I have a sense of the cycles, with the surprises like this morning. Waking up to snow covered flowers, something of the poppy scene from Wizard of Oz. Perhaps this will wake me up to the fleeting responsibilities of parenthood and the changes occurring over the next months. And the possibility of each day, each conversation being the last.