taking flight

There is something about butterflies starting their long migration to Mexico and my youngest daughter going to Kindergarten that connect for me.

When we released our 3 butterflies this year, there was a mix of joy and sadness and great hope. And a prayer. Because Mexico's a long way off. A lot could happen on that journey.

And then I look at Eden. Her road ahead is unknown too, but these first days in a new school feel very big and daunting and there are some tears.

Release. And flight. And the journey ahead.

I send Eden off, knowing that this is just a tiny part of her journey - one that will hopefully be long and successful. God willing. Some days I pretend to squish her down to baby size so that she won't grow any bigger. But I can't shrink her, or stunt her growth, any more than I can stuff that butterfly back into its broken chrysalis.

Whenever I see a monarch these days, I say a little prayer. For my hands to open in release, and not hold onto what was. For a safe journey. For courage to face the unknown. And for her to always know where home is, and migrate back sooner than I even realize.

every day growth

Spring always surprises me: the flowers thrusting out of still-cool soil to smile at the sun, sap rushing up the trees to turn small, hard brown buds into delicate green leaves.

Every year it seems to go from bud to leaf so quickly - it's as if I can watch the tree change every day. So this year I wanted to capture it. I took a photo of our backyard maple every day from April 28 onwards. And this is what happened:

Measurable, every day growth.

And I wanted that for myself. Do you too?

Cycles of rest followed by unbelievable growth. Remembering each year what it's like to grow, then then just instinctively doing it. No fear, no comparing myself with others' growth, just doing it because it's the right season.

I know there are scientific explanations for the growth and the timing of this growth, but I'd rather see it as a small miracle.

I wonder whether the tree reluctantly gives up its leaves in the fall to be still and asleep for months, knowing that a period of growth will come again, or if there is reluctance at each stage - including the growth.

As nature wakes up from its slumber and drinks this potent elixir of spring, I can easily imagine it has human qualities - and that sights such as singing and dancing trees are entirely possible. Sounds crazy, but this is where my imagination goes, especially in the spring. Maybe yours does too! Like in this verse:

"For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." Isaiah 55:12

I'd like to measure the expansion of my soul. Just to see if there's been any change. Whether there is every day growth - small signs that parts of me are bursting forth and expanding. But the hard thing about measurement is that I may just fear that I'm not enough - that I'm not growing enough, not stretching enough, not enough. Which isn't a great place to be.

So I want to be like the trees with their every day growth and seasons of rest, all the while leaning in to the grace that's out there for me to grab onto. Every day, grace-filled growth and rest.