Spring is taking its own sweet time coming. It’s been cold and gray, icy some days and pretty much frosty every morning. I feel as frozen inside as the weather is outside.

We are waiting for our court case to work its way through the system, in the hopes that we might, in the end, be allowed to see our now motherless granddaughters. I just found out for certain that my job, as it exists is going away, not just for me, but for all those who hold the position of store graphic artist at Whole Foods. A chronic health problem is vexing my husband, putting him into a mood as dour as the weather.

And I have been flooded by flashbacks of this time last year, to the anxious moments when my daughter Caitlin was first in rehab, then charged with involuntary manslaughter, then kicked out of rehab for not being emotionally able to manage her program after being so charged, cuffed out by her PO to be transported first to the Portage County jail, then to Summit County jail maximum security, then back to Portage before being released on house-arrest. Those were trying days. Yet as nerve-wracking as they were in real time, I still had hopes for her all that spring that she could put all of this behind her. My hopes evaporated last August, …just gone with her last breath. Even my spiritual practice is now shrouded by this grief. I tried engaging in an ADF daily shrine building exercise until I couldn’t bear to take down and rearrange any of the items in the shrines that were the most evocative of her.

Despite the lingering chill, snowdrops and crocuses are popping up all over my garden and lawns. A few overnight snows have flattened them low in these weeks while they worked their way to the surface, but they perked their heads back up defiantly. Under the gray skies of the late afternoon when I arrive home they’ve closed their torch-shaped buds, so day after day I have been missing their perky faces. They can be shy when there is no sun. This still doesn’t stop me from fondly remembering how they first arrived years ago: in netbags as corms from mail-order nurseries, as wedding party favors when I married some friends at a local winery, and especially when I popped them into the ground with a dibble, bouncing adolescent Caitlin assisting or mostly poking around nearby in exploration, as part of our home-schooling science curriculum. She used to revel in the fact that she could look out her bedroom window to an enviably carpeted tapestry of bold crayon-hued blossoms.

Last Thursday I had the day off. It was, of course, again raining, although this time warm and gentle for a change. I marvelled at how many new clumps of crocuses and snow drops emerged this year from seeds and cormlets distributing themselves about through seasons past.  I wanted so badly to call Cait on the phone, to invite her over to smoke on the patio and see how the goldfish in the pond have grown over the winter, and to especially to see how our crocuses have spread themselves so riotously about the lawn. It was such a gloomy day, yet I noticed at the noontime hour that crocuses had opened themselves in spite of the gray, trying to maximize their chances with whatever light that could be had at the mid-day hour. Their goblet-shaped blooms filled up with raindrops while blithely stretching themselves wide for some short hour, hoping for a brave bee or a rolling raindrop to carry their pollen to and fro.

I reflected in that moment about how much a gray cloud has clung over me, beginning with the struggle to help, not only one but two loved ones, who have suffered so from substance use disorder, then through such a horrible loss and the  cascade of uncomfortable life changes that flow inevitably from that day. The uncertainty at work has not helped and the anger I have felt about not being able to comfort Caitlin’s girls and gain my own healing by feeling the joy of them in my life has at times been paralyzing. The spirit of those wee flowers gave me courage to try at least to open in my own small ways to whatever light is available to me in my life. To catch the gleam from a world of possibilities even when the tears fall like rain into the cup that is my heart.

Certainly, I try to be mindful of an abundance of blessings to be counted and joys to be experienced with friends and kind co-workers, my husband and my other children and grandchildren. I’m not knocking the dark either, whose comforting cloak has given me a place to hide and heal in. It’s not that the gray will go away, but being shut closed all the time in response to it will mean I will never accept the warm fertilization of creativity and passion that has kept me going through tough times in the past and helped me reach out to others in need.

So hail, friend Crocus and brave Snowdrop!

Soon the cavalry of golden daffodils and blue hyacinths will push you aside, but for now I will drink in the inspiration of your rain-filled chalices should you continue to be brave enough to share these with me in spite of more gray days ahead. And perhaps the Sun will join us.