My spouse and I are really lucky. We live on around three acres right by the Conococheague Creek, a tributary of the Potomac River that’s large enough to take a kayak down. The land we belong to has been settled for a long time – our home was originally the toll house for a flour mill right on that creek – the oldest parts of our home were built in the 1700s. There’s good, deep history there.
There are also a lot of very old trees.
Which means that the first thing that happens in spring, before the business of planting or anything else really, is a stick pick-up. Sounds easy, but when we’re talking three acres and a winter that was marked by heavy snowfall and high winds, that easy task quickly takes over a whole day. Pickup is followed by a big burn of all those downed branches – another day-long activity, at least if you’re trying to do it safely.
I think there’s a tendency to rush into seasons, especially if we live somewhat isolated from the flow of nature. This is true for most of us these days. Unless we work in agriculture or have hobbies that draw us into close proximity with the outdoors, the rhythms of our lives are largely the same season to season. So, the spring equinox passed last month, the warm temperatures are here in Western Maryland, and spring and summer are spiraling out before us. There’s a push in our parent culture to go full bore into springtime – to buy new deck furniture and swimsuits, to plan a vacation, to shift the decorations in our homes over to pastels and floral prints… And all of that is fine, particularly if you find that it supports your ability to anchor into the cycle of the wheel of the year.
The thing is, this is a liminal time when we still have the occasional day of “summer in the sun, winter in the shade,” when the edges of the season are where we find ourselves, when the big migration of the seasonal birds is underway right now and unusual travelers appear in our backyards. This is a threshold season. We are traveling between ways of thinking, of being in relationship to the world around us. We are moving from the inward focus of winter to the outward stretch of summer, and that passage – the movement itself – matters.
And there are probably some sticks to pick up and figure out what to do with as we make this transition.
For our ancestors in northern climates, winter was marked with a different kind of work than the growing season. It was a time of repair – mending clothing and tools and fixing the inside of homes. It was a time of making – spinning wool into thread, carving new tools by firelight, and knotting new fishing nets together. It was a time of story, of setting down the layer of myth that would underpin the season to come.
The tools of winter are different than the tools of summer. The work of winter is different than the work of summer. And the transition between those spaces is important to the story we tell ourselves about who and where we are. We are a narrative species, a storytelling species. Our sense of identity is based upon where we come from and what we’ve experienced. Who we become is shaped by the story we tell right now. The summer ahead is shaped by the story we speak into this liminal space. There is power in transitions. Power in thresholds.
So let’s look at the story.
Think back for a moment to the winter that was. You can even close your eyes if you’d like. Remember the short days, the way night fell so very early. Remember the cold that stung your skin when you stepped outside. The way you really needed your coat. That big snowstorm that shut everything down for a couple days.
Think about what you worked on this winter. We all had something we were doing, even if we weren’t conscious of it being work. Maybe it was just continuing to show up to a day job. Maybe it was managing your home life. Maybe it was pursuing a hobby or interest. Think about what you read or watched or crafted, where you focused your energy during those long cold nights.
Consider: what did you learn this winter?
Consider: what would you change going forward?
And lastly, what threads or fragments or last tasks need to be cleaned up or put away so you can move forward into the growing season?
One of the beautiful aspects of being human is the opportunity to begin again at any moment in time. We have specific days we associate with changed behavior – New Year’s Day, our birthdays, the spring equinox – but the truth is that any day is an opportunity to reflect, reset, and redesign our focus. These liminal times are particularly potent simply because there’s some practical resetting that’s going to happen regardless.
Spring cleaning as a practice is present in our culture as an expression of some of those practical resets. We put away the coats and hats, we pack our sweaters into a drawer, and we haul out our more lightweight clothing from wherever it’s been slumbering through winter. As we consider what we learned and accomplished during winter, maybe we weave some of that knowledge into our spring cleaning. As you put away your heavy winter clothing, what else are you setting down? Are there any symbols or messages you’d like to leave yourself? What if you put a letter in the pocket of your coat, or on top of your sweaters with a message about what you learned this past winter, and any wisdom that you’d like to access when winter returns again. It’s easy to say we’ll remember something six months from now, but my lived experience is that so much happens in a matter of months that holding onto smaller threads of focus is very difficult.
What if, when you hang up your summer clothing, you tell yourself the story of your winter? What you learned. What you accomplished. What you’re setting down or releasing or wrapping up now. With every t-shirt you place in your closet, what new patterns are also going into place?
Passing through a threshold involves leaving one space behind to enter another. Letting go, wrapping up, and piling all those sticks together is only part of the process.
It’s all too easy to fall into a sort of autopilot experience of moving through life. We switch from heat to air conditioning. We switch our clothing out. Maybe we eat a little later since the evenings feel more spacious. Here, too, there’s an opportunity for deeper connection not just on what we’re leaving behind, but what we’re making our way towards.
At the land I belong to, after we do the big stick pick-up and burn, the cooled ashes from that burn get sprinkled into the soil of the various vegetable and flower beds. They return nutrients to the soil to support the growing season, and make the soil ready for the seeds and seedlings of the garden to come.
There’s a lesson here too in terms of conscious preparation and moving forward with intention. On this side of the threshold, we have a choice about how we make those first steps onto the path ahead. We get to choose some of the story of spring and summer that we intend to tell this year. We get to nourish the soil before we plant.
Think forward for a moment to the growing season ahead of us. You can even close your eyes if you’d like. Think about the long days, the way the evenings will stretch out with so much sunlight. Think about the warm temperatures that you’ll encounter when you step outside. The way you’ll want to wear lighter clothing. The way our region will be so green and lush.
Think about what you’re planning for this growing season. We all have something we will do, even if we’re not conscious of it being work.
Consider: what do you need from this summer?
Consider: how can you weave that need into this outward spiral?
And lastly, what threads or pieces of the story of summer do you want to weave into your own story this year? Part of connection with the natural cycles of our region involves finding and focusing on what we love about where we live. What do you want to see or do? What do you want to feel? How do you want to be in relationship with the season to come?
I’m a big believer in something I refer to as seasonal bucket lists. Years ago, my little sister realized that she wasn’t making space in her life for summer activities. That she hadn’t gone swimming outside in a long time. She and I are only 18 months apart, so we’re both at a very busy point in our work lives. That busyness can quickly take over any season and before you realize it, another turn of the wheel is complete. My sister began to consciously make space in her life for seasonal activities. Her choices there inspired me to begin exploring similar thinking. Hence seasonal bucket lists. A collection of sensations, experiences, and adventures that can only happen during certain seasons. Traditions and activities that anchor us to the turning of the wheel.
As you go forward from this transitional season, what does your summer bucket list look like? There are so many options in our region. This can be as simple as taking more time to sit outside and enjoy the warm temperatures and birdsong. Conscious connection doesn’t have to be burdensome or full of logistics. Maybe what you need from this summer is rest. Conversely, this can be as complex as planning a trip to the beach to feel the ocean touch your skin. Maybe what you need from this summer is a lived reminder that amidst all the difficult, frightening things happening in the world, the ocean is still there and children still build sand castles and decorate them with sticks and seashells.
If I could give you any piece of wisdom from walking the path of landconnection as part of a spiritual practice, it’s the idea of presence in the landscape. In a world where we can exist day to day largely sheltered from the changing of the seasons, we must make a conscious choice to become part of the story of the season. We must choose to become present to the land and with the land, to apply focus and awareness to the world outside of the news cycle and our day to day workload. When we become present, we are granted a visceral understanding of where are and what that can mean for the land, for ourselves, and for our relationship with it.
Right now, we are at the threshold of spring. We are leaving one pattern behind as we enter another. This is a moment of change, of transition. It’s an opportunity to look around, notice what is happening, and make different choices. It’s an opportunity to transform – to mindfully choose the story we will tell ourselves and each other over the growing season. To recognize again that more than one thing is real and that narrative makes a difference. The unique gift of humans is our ability to hold the beauty of spring in one hand as we navigate the hard, difficult parts of human society with the other.
The threshold is here. The sticks are gathered together. What will you set down at this doorway? What will you pick up? And what story will you tell under the summer sun?
This sermon was first offered to the Unitarian Universalist Church of Hagerstown on Sunday, April 19th.
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