SPRING
Memories, or maybe fantasies, about the Spring of my childhood spark images of bunnies, chicks, and flowers.
My mother would always take me for a new “Easter” outfit and prepare a meal fit for a king, but never did we cross the threshold of a church together as a family. Why the outfit if we were only staying home or going to the house of a family member? Who were we impressing? My guess as to why we did not go to church is that we were too damaged as a family or maybe felt betrayed by god. It will forever be a mystery.
So grateful am I that my god does not require my attendance or sacrifice, or that It (Spirit) does not require me to suffer. I love my god even when I call It - IT, even as I refer to it by one of a dozen names. I love being married to a god in my heart that loves me without opinions about my behaviors, choices, or desires. I love that this relationship is deeply intimate, but never crosses a line of loyalty. This god, my lover, my support, my therapist, my guide, is the longest relationship of my life but never asks me to choose between It and the love I have for my husband and family.
True love, such as this, always loves you without restriction or demands. The love of my god finds me in my joy and in my doubt. It waits around every corner for me to remember who I am and then winks at me ever so gently when I do remember.
What does this have to do with Spring? It is watching mother nature wake up from her sleep, the sudden busyness of the buds and the flowering trees, and the wildlife coming alive like they too are remembering who they are.
My church lives within my inner landscape. I never leave home without it. Where does your “church” reside? Where do you turn to be reminded of your perfection and divine worthiness? I go within.
My wish for you this week, for many it is Easter week, is that you approach your Jerusalem (place of peace) with a bounty of self-love in your heart and the generosity to be YOU, undefended, unexplained, and untamed you.
May your rebirth be loving and conscious.
