The time to bloom is now.

The flowers raise their petals to affirm the movement

the bees buzz about on task

while the cherry blossoms spread forth their covetable buds

and the wind whisks the pollen through the air,

for even they have somewhere to go.

All are busy showing off for the world–

nature hums with anticipation.

Meanwhile, humanity gazes on in unexplainable envy…

studying the natural vigor of creation,

listening to the hustle and bustle of the bees and the birds,

each staying busy in their own roles, singing about the glory of it all.

But this year, nature’s song doesn’t fit the narrative.

This year, everything is different.

The world has shut down, as fear has risen up.

Sickness has stolen plans, finances, dreams, lives.

There are no summer trips being planned,

no spring gatherings to attend,

no joining with the bees in their productivity.

This year, stillness has fallen over us all.

We are left without control.

Without production to bring us value

without success to bring us love

without noise to bring us distraction

without hurry to drink down till the glass is empty

until we are drunk on the false sense of self worth.

Who are we now?

The sound that rings out in the silence of our rooms

No amount of internet entertainment can distract us long enough to seal up the inner thoughts that stillness has unleashed in our minds, and set loose in our spirits.

The vices once ignored live as monsters that have crept beneath our beds

Our relational tears stare us in the face even when we leave the room

Addictions gnaw away at our souls as we try to close our eyes and sleep

Insecurities that we bury beneath mounds of work are now mounds of work lying acutely visible in our own hearts…

And what lies in front of us is overwhelming.

Meanwhile, the earth carries on and thrives

and we, we are trapped.

Or are we?

Perhaps our discomfort isn’t our curse, but our healing,

and the stillness isn’t the sickness, but the cure.

Perhaps now that we can’t chase the usual things that grant us fleeting moments of meaning, we can finally find what we’ve ever longed for.

Perhaps the answers we are searching for aren’t found in running away from the situation, but in the pressing in to what we cannot change.

Perhaps in the quiet place, we find strength,

and in the loss of control we gain vulnerability.

Perhaps in the death of noise we resurrect the stir of the still, small voice.

Perhaps, like the spring flowers, we too can bloom where we are planted;

Perhaps we can bloom for the first time.

a. b. martin