It's March.
Spring hasn't quite sprung.
But it's not really winter anymore, either.
We're in between seasons. I still wear my gloves, but they're the fingerless kind. I still crunch through snow on my way to the mailbox, but mud claims more and more of the yard with each sunny or rainy day. I exhale and still see my breath, but I don't inhale icicles. I still smell fireplace wood smoke – that cozy, wintery scent— but it meets my senses wafted on moist, thawing air.
This is a time of transition.
One foot steps forward but the other hangs back, hesitating.
My heart races in anticipation: I can't wait until we go outside without jackets! And spend mornings at the park! And sit in the grass! And dig in the garden! And open the windows! And bring out the road bikes! And watch everything green up and bloom!
But despite the suspense, there is something balancing about such a straddled stance.
My fingertips stretch forward, just brushing the future; the heel of my back foot presses against the past. A wave of reflection washes through me; my body conducts the heat. I stand quite still, all motion paused, weight evenly distributed across this space, breathing into the very center of all things.
The change of seasons brings on an obvious time of transition. But we don't have to wait for an equinox – we are always on the cusp of change.
I find it every day in the hour just after dawn –no longer night but not fully day. And then again at dusk, when the day melts into darkness. I find stillness in the quality of this light – a visual pause that can bring inner balance to a disheveled morning or chaotic evening.
And I find it in every breath as I tune into the pause at the top of my inhalation. I retain that breath for a moment, holding the space in my lungs, balancing before moving forward.
Perhaps by becoming more aware of these physical times of transition and tapping into the balance found in the changing season, the quality of light, or the movements of breath, I can learn to find more peace during periods of waiting in my life. Right now, my heart races with anxiety – and even dread – when my mind sniffs and searches, wandering out of the present to wonder about the future. That page is blank in my imagination, and the unknowns fill me with fear. No light can illuminate the corners of that void, so it makes more sense to find balance – and thus, inner peace – where I currently stand.
My back foot presses against where I've been and who I was: I can still touch the uncertainty of new motherhood and all the overwhelming emotions that occupied that space.
I'm not in that place anymore. But I draw upon lessons learned, pipetting the energy of experience into today's emotional equation.
My fingertips stretch forward, lightly brushing the edges of new experience.
I'm not able to grasp anything concrete yet. But I can tap into the energy of potential and siphon inspiration into the present.
This is a time of transition. I wait in Warrior Pose: strong, stable, still.
And I might stand straddled in this way for awhile yet, so I better get comfortable right where I am. A Warrior of the Wait.
