[MD] OSTARA

[MarshaV]

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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