The lilac bush outside the window where I write is about to unfurl its canopy of leaves. On this Friday morning, while drinking coffee and writing in my journal, I can see the leafless bush and adjacent trees bending and waving, driven by the pre-sunrise Wyoming wind.
I’m writing with a small desk lamp illuminating my space. I’ve raised the blinds to watch the sun rise. I feel exposed as passersby can see into the window, past the leafless limbs.
As the out-of-doors darkness yields to the sun’s methodical arrival, I begin to see familiar items through the window…my white Ford Ranger parked at the curb, the school building across the street, the neighbor’s tan Subaru Outback, the other neighbors’ white/green sided house, and the city trash truck driving east, having left the school’s parking lot.
As the light grows I see buds all over the lilac bush, and on other trees. The buds and branches shiver in the wind. But they appear ready to reveal their leaves at any minute, willing participants in the still-young growing season.
The sprouting leaves spark hope in my soul, the kind that shows up every spring when plants emerging from dormancy point to life and its cycles. The bush just outside my window will soon provide a thick canopy of green, and then fragrant flowers will adorn its majesty. It will be beautiful and I’ll enjoy its shade, color, and smells.
The canopy will also provide privacy. For the next several months I’ll be hidden behind its beauty. I welcome that change, the safety and assurance of knowing that passersby can’t see me as I pour my heart onto my Moleskines or my keyboard. And yet I’ll miss being able to see what’s happening beyond the lilac bush, the familiar street scene described above.
Life’s like that, I think. Seasons of being able to see what’s around the corner and seasons of addressing only those things right in front of us. I think there’s beauty in both, and challenges.