If you walk along the damp banks of the Monocacy River, you will discover that the bluebells are now emerging from the dark soil. First, you simply see dark green shoots, thick paddle shaped leaves with all shades from forest black to pale spring. Hints of purple edge the green and deep violet shows where the stalk meets the soil.
Then the plant produces the bud that will eventually open and extend itself to reveal the hanging bluebell blossoms. The bud is at first tightly curled upon itself and protected by thick leaves of darkest green. The morning it first emerges, it reminds me of a cabbage head and the tiny purple and blue flowers are protected and hidden behind this shield. I know better than to pry open the tender center. These flowers are not yet ready to stretch into the sunlight. They must remain hidden. I must remain patient. Look again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. April is coming
Hiddenness is a stage of transformation. There are times when life is too fragile, too tender, too unformed to be exposed. It would be a violence to pry open the tomb and demand the corpse be resurrected on my impatient schedule. I must trust God that life will blossom from the tomb when God says that Easter has come. And so I keep Lenten vigil, knowing that I cannot now see what is hidden, trusting that God is doing the work behind the veil of leaves.
Hiddenness can also become a way to avoid facing into the light and revealing the full truth of myself. My spiritual director turned my gaze towards Ignatius’ 14 Rules for Discernment of Spirits last week. We talked about the ways we are drawn away from the light of God’s unconditional love. Sometimes, the enemy of our humanity invites us back into the bud, enclosing us in a shielded embrace that resembles the safety of the holy tomb, but is really a prison to prevent our growth. In these moments of trial, hiddenness becomes for me a way to avoid facing the truth of my blossoming and extending self. I convince myself that I can blossom in this shadowy cave and I don’t have to bother the rest of my life with the truth of my becoming. I push all my bluebells back into the enclosure and pretend that Spring has not yet come. I refuse to reveal the newly understood truth of myself because it is too uncomfortable, too conflicted, too much pain and change and upheaval to those around me. I turn away from the light.
A quote I read this past week from Anais Nin describes beautifully the courage needed to blossom into the change that has already taken hold in the becoming bud.
And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Anais Nin, from Broken Open: how difficult times can help us grow by Elizabeth Lesser
Sometimes it is pain that inspires me to be courageous and grow towards the light. However uncomfortable I feel about revealing the blossoming truth, it is more painful to stay curled up in the embrace of darkness.
I have been pondering today that hiddenness can be a womb, a tomb, or a prison. And sometimes, as I reflect on my journey, I think it can be all three at the same time, depending on what I am nurturing in the enclosure of darkness. Am I being formed? Am I trusting God’s timing? Am I refusing to be revealed in full blossom?
From the darkness of my enclosure, I can feel that Easter is coming. I prepare to emerge into the light. God give me courage to blossom and dance in the light of Spring.
