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I love spring. Well, who doesn't? Have you ever heard someone say, "Spring? I hate spring. I can't stand all those flowers." I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that -- unless it had something to do with pollen and allergies.
And what about those flowers? All those new ones bursting forth, greeting the world with their vibrant selves. For the many months of fall and winter, they lay dormant, hidden little surprises tucked inside woody, leafless plants, plants that seem...unproductive.
Our neighbor, Mike, is a horticulturist. I thought it odd that for a plant guru, his front yard seemed void of color and interest. One would expect living next to a horticulturist, a garden of exceeding beauty and complexity, perfectly balanced and color-coordinated, the magnum opus of the neighborhood. Not so, I thought.
Well, I was wrong. A couple of weeks ago, as winter passed its baton to spring -- gradually and yet suddenly, it seemed -- his landscaping took on a new appearance. Now the tall green spires in his front yard were full of yellowish-white blossomy things. I have no idea what they are. He told me, but I can't pronounce its Latin name, let alone remember it. A bush that borders our driveway, once twiggy and easily ignored, is now festooned with bright-green heart-shaped leaves and magenta blossoms. It calls out to you, "And you thought I was ugly! Take a look at me now, lady." Yet another formerly odd-looking specimen, reed-like in appearance, is showing off its chocolate-brown-and-green foliage. Fluffy, feathery looking trees that bear a striking resemblance to the Truffula trees from Dr. Seuss's, The Lorax, are getting fuller and fluffier yet. And there's more. The whole thing is understated and stunning. I take back everything I thought, Mike. I get it now. Beauty sometimes has to wait for its proper moment.
Still thinking about the lovely plants that I have the joy to live next to now, I walked into the mud room to do some laundry, peered out the window and caught a glimpse of the sun-drenched mountain.
I was aghast. "What's that mountain doing there? I've never seen that before!"
I'm not joking. I don't remember it being there. The sun rising in the east cast its warm glow against the Topa Topas this morning and, suddenly, something that has been there every day, looked so different and beautiful, that I scarcely recognized it.
One simple and yet extremely profound truth is that when a seed is planted in the ground, it dies unto itself when it produces the seedling. Locked inside that humble little capsule, some as tiny as a grain of salt, is life itself. And the process of life keeps reproducing itself each season. Stop and ponder that for a second and I can assure you that once the profundity of that hits you, anything I say will not be instructive, because I can't explain it and I can't make it any grander and miraculous than it is in its own simple reality. It just is. Like my neighbor's garden, the most beautiful things may not always be apparent. We have to wait for it.
So I wonder: What hidden seeds lie waiting to come to life inside of Daniel's mind?
The brain of an autistic child is different than a neurotypical child's. For instance, the parts of his brain that control communication are wired differently. It is why I am at a loss when he asks me a question that doesn't have an answer. It is why he has to be taught how to have a reciprocal conversation. It is why he misreads people's laughter and is certain they are laughing at him. It is why no matter what I say, I cannot convince him otherwise. Sometimes I wonder if this will ever change. And then spring came.
We have seen developmental change in Daniel over the last year. It happens when I'm not looking for it. Little surprises that make me stand in awe of him. These are moments like emerging seedlings. He'll say something witty. He'll ask me a question he's never asked me before. He'll say something funny and know it's funny. He'll use words that I didn't think he knew. They are seedlings. They have been waiting to come, waiting to surface, hidden, unseen.
It gives me tremendous hope in knowing that there is so much spring inside of Daniel. Tomorrow, there's probably going to be some new and unusual plant in my neighbor's garden, having burst forth during the night. And like that, I love waking up each day not knowing which pathway in his brain may be awakened today. Mystery is good. Waiting is good.
I love spring.
Selah.
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