Hope is a Blade of Grass

Living in the In-between

Underneath the snow the grass is tender and green like a baby born too soon, needing reassurance. Spring will come like this: tentatively and not all at once. Blooming in doses then retreating, uncertain. I can’t tell if she’s a coward or a wise woman. Either way it’s clear she understands the universal truth that timing is everything.

And me? Which am I? Afraid or brilliant? And when it’s time to bust out of my cocoon will I know? Will there be a knock at the door? A call to heed? Or will it be more subtle than that? Just a knowing the way the grass knows: it’s time to push up through the deadness of winter. It’s time to be bright and tall and alive again.

There is this gap I call home now. The gap between letting go of the trapeze bar you were holding and waiting to firmly grasp the next one swinging toward you. Watching from the carnival audience that span of time seems like a quick moment, a split second. But when you’re living in that gap — when everything in your life is suspended in that space between letting go and grabbing hold — there is nothing quick about it. It’s a prolonged agony that goes on and on defying time and reason.

Maybe there’s a momentum required of us, when we’re trapped in the in-betweens, that we’re supposed to manifest and generate on our own instead of waiting for. Maybe hope is not just “a thing with feathers” but a thing which knows how to flap its wings against the punishing end of winter winds.

Or maybe hope is a blade of grass, choosing itself, deciding to live, pushing up, with great intention and simple beauty, through the snow toward the promise of the spring sun.