Yes, Yes, A Thousand Times Yes!!!

Spring has sprung, and it is time for all things to shine out and risk their own blossoming. For there is always risk in life, always unknowns that will surprise and challenge. And despite this, still we choose to grow. And on this morning in early May, here is my risk: I tell you that I am writing a book. There, I have said it and in a very public way, too. Eeeeek! Just like someone announcing she's had her last cigarette, I must now make good on the promise.

As is often the case when we're called to something new, there is excitement. There is also unease, since I cannot foresee where this path will take me. There are so many things I do not now know. I can't know what the final product will be, can't be certain it will be worthy of being read by others. I can't say if I will be able to successfully traverse the terrain to its publication. I can't even say for sure that I will complete the book itself.

And yet I am writing it. This is a seed I have planted with the spring. No, that is not quite right. It feels like a seed that was planted within me and a very long time ago, one that is simply ready now to take root and, hopefully, to bloom. Either way, this seed is one I now tend with my time, my imagination, my skill, and an unwavering commitment to love it into being, regardless of whether a particular hour's tap~tap~tapping away at my computer is satisfyingly productive or not.

In other words, I do these things despite the risk involved. Risk is inherent in life. Rising from our beds in the morning, we have no idea what the day will bring. And still we rise. We never can be sure how any conversation will go. And still we converse. And we never know what will become of the things we birth. And still we offer them passage into the world. To do otherwise, to hunker down for fear of the unknown, is to live less fully. Not risking becomes then a sort of death.

Of course, it is usually best for our risks to be wise ones, important that we discern the most likely avenue to success before we leap forward. But at some point, leap we must, knowing full well that success is never assured. Such is the way of life.

As we sat to meditate one morning last week, my husband noticed a commotion across our backyard fence. High in a box elder tree, a raven was threatening an enormous nest, eliciting much thrashing and squawking from a flock of angry magpies. Opening to this slice of life~in~action became our morning's meditation. While it was easy to find ourselves rooting for the magpies as they valiantly protected their eggs, we knew it wasn't so simple, for the raven needed nourishment to raise its own young. 

This spectacle, a holy racket indeed, stretched on a full 25 minutes, though we didn't know how long it had been underway before we tuned in. As we watched, the flock of protectors dwindled to just two, presumably the parents. While the magpies' harsh calls were accompanied by impressive hopping and wing~flapping, the raven only occasionally moved from one branch to another. Its strategy to exhaust the parents, as it already had their flock~mates, seemed certain to prevail. Then without warning, the raven lifted its wings, took flight toward the north, and was gone. Backyard peace descended again, and my husband and I went down to find our own sustenance to carry us through the day.

Yet we knew ourselves nourished already by our avian friends. They reminded us that risk comes with any new project, whether it be writing a book, raising a family, negotiating the vagaries of a pandemic, or growing into the best versions of ourselves. And still we do these things, because the only other option is to settle for being less than we can be. Shrinking life to fit our fears causes us to shrink as well, and we die a bit to the wonder of it all.

This weekend marks the ancient Celtic festival of Beltane, also known as May Day. Falling roughly halfway between the Spring Equinox and the Summer Solstice, Beltane is a celebration of the fecundity of all things. Spring has indeed sprung, with the natural world modeling the courage needed for growth of any kind. Despite the uncertainty of success, crocus rise through late season snows, spinach grows in the garden, and deer give birth to fawns who rise on spindly legs. And magpies lay their eggs and do their very best to see their babies hatched and fledged. 

The natural world does not play it safe, does not let a little thing like possible failure cause it to abandon the urge toward growth. It thus encourages us to give life our best shot as well, committing to that which calls to us, and extending a hearty assent to the entire process. And so we plant our own seeds, and we do our best to protect them from harsh winds and those who would do them harm. 

And we also reach for what we want and for what seems essential for our growth. And if, after a fair amount of effort, we get the message that our chosen avenue is not ours to travel, we defer. Like the raven, we go off then in search of another path forward. 

Succeeding or not isn't often all that important. What is most relevant in this human endeavor we have undertaken is to live it fully, and to offer to life a hearty and resounding "Yes! Yes!" and always a joyful "Yes!!!"

With a rush of love and heartfelt assent,

Leia